The Snow Queen
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: As a gift to his granddaughter, President Snow has promised to dedicate the 72nd Hunger Games in her honour. In place of her friend, Eirwen volunteers. And she doesn't just endure the Games; she thrives in them. She falls in love, and her heart broken, but she goes on. To honour them. Three years later, she and a simmering miner help heal each other.
1. Reaped

**A.N.**: I really do think Gale gets a rather raw deal out of _Hunger Games_. It's all from Katniss' perspective, of course, so we don't get to see Gale's personal growth; but I'd like to see him have some conversations with someone that don't revolve around the Girl on Fire. Like Gale's perspectives on the Capitol, the Games and the rebellion; he is the true rebel. How Katniss refers to Gale's 'anger and hatred' is rather unfair; she's rude and disdainful toward the Capitol, rather than openly hostile.

So, I'm giving Gale his own 'dandelion' as it were. Something to stoke his flames in a good way!

And I've sort of rearranged some of the Districts, because I want my characters to come from somewhere brutally cold, snowed in six months of the year…somewhere like Alaska. Ice and fur and fish, lots of elk and babies! Also, I've watched too much _Lord of the Rings_, _King Arthur_, _Call the Midwife_ and _Snow White & the Huntsman_, all of which heavily influenced this story.

This story is probably a little darker even than Hunger Games canon – there are some elements that, if written in more detail rather than referenced, would make this an 'M' rating.

Oh, and given Snow's granddaughter is portrayed as a twelve-year-old in _Catching Fire_, I've decided to give her a little more presence in this story – and she's quite important because her 10th birthday affects the 72nd Hunger Games.

* * *

**Snow Queen**

_Reaped_

* * *

The term 'reaping' has two definitions: 'to get as a return, recompense, or result'.

Or 'to cut with a sickle or other implement or a machine, as in harvest'.

* * *

The premature Reaping for the 72nd Hunger Games set things in motion for a spectacular show.

President Snow's granddaughter was approaching her tenth birthday: as a gift, her grandfather had promised to dedicate the 72nd Hunger Games in her honour.

And she had requests: "the little ones die too quickly," she had told Caesar Flickerman on national television. She was dark-haired, and pleasingly normal-looking beside the bizarre host with his emerald-green hair, eyebrows and lipstick. She was a doe-eyed, pretty little thing with a guileless smile, and it saddened Eirwen to see such warped innocence, giddily anticipating the brutal deaths of twenty-four children.

Eirwen didn't know whether the little girl even realised it was wrong; or that she had been taught that this was normal, the Hunger Games were merely a television-show to entertain the people of the Capitol. It made her stomach turn either way.

The Hunger Games were an atrocity – they rooted for their favourites, crying when they got killed. And when the Victor was named, they were eaten up with jealousy that the Victor's district received foodstuffs the rest only ever dreamed of. Corn-syrup, tinned fruits, _eggs_ and flour! Every family, in the entire district, for a year.

Their district was tiny – it made the impoverished coalminers' community of District 12 look like a sprawling metropolis. And they were largely ignored; fewer than four-thousand people lived in their community, tucked far in the most treacherous glaciers of the north, a mountainous sound sided by the ocean, unapproachable, barely liveable. But it was theirs: and because the Peacekeepers couldn't take a word of advice, their district was famous not for fishing, or textiles, masonry or coal.

They were notorious for…_losing_ their officials.

They contributed so little to Panem in general, just elk-meat, the odd fur from a pure white bear, highly prized and expensive, salmon and halibut, and above all _ice_, that it seemed staggering they had been remembered at all after the rebellion, when they had done what they always did in conflict – hid, kept their heads down, and kept going.

Yet every year, Dorabella Blithe arrived looking utterly atrocious in her Capitol fashions, taking two of their children away to the Capitol, to dress them up and stuff them full of unimaginable treats before they were slaughtered.

District 9 had its Victors, yes: and they were some of the fiercest and most awe-inspiring people in Panem. The small community of District 9 were renowned as some of the _hardest_ people in Panem. The conditions in which they lived were worse than any faced by the other districts, even before taking into account the Peacekeepers. A month-long summer, five hours' daylight during the dead of winter, everything covered in a blanket of snow at least six foot high, a true subarctic climate. But there was one thing they were good at: and that was surviving.

And they were taught how to survive from the time they could walk. Hunting, fishing, starting fires, surviving in a blizzard, farming humble little allotments, canning, preserving meat, sewing, treating furs, baking, skating, carving and how to utilise herbs as medicines. They were hunters _and_ healers. Survivalists.

They had as good a chance as any Career at winning; and in comparison to Districts 1 and 2, who most often won the Games, District 9 had a higher ratio of Victors to population. But their population was barely 4,000 – there were fewer than five-hundred children between the ages of twelve and eighteen present every year at the reaping – and they felt the loss of those two children taken from them every year.

Almost every one of them had been delivered by Griet: she was the oldest-surviving Victor in the history of the Hunger Games. Well into her nineties, she was a sprightly, enigmatic woman with a wide, pale face and glowing eyes, and mesmerising long-fingered hands that fluttered like spiders. Griet was a calm, conscientious objector to the Games. During their summer month, District 9 saw the greatest percentage of that year's births; as the sole experienced midwife, she was in great demand, and it wasn't uncommon for the Peacekeepers to grumble that the "madwoman" refused to leave the side of a woman in labour to watch the Reaping.

There were only two midwives in their District; Griet, a nonagenarian with a fading memory and a tendency for naughtiness and cake-stealing, and her teenaged apprentice. Eirwen.

The only baby, in all Griet's years, to ever have been abandoned.

Since she was fourteen, Eirwen had helped deliver 195 babies. Hunting, she was excellent at, she had been taught by the best; every child in the District was. She could sew, knit, make medicine from plants, fish and ice-skate…but delivering babies, healing people; she was no doctor, there were none in 9, but she had experience, and people trusted her. And she took pride in her ability to help others.

When the President had stood outside his palace in the heart of the Capitol and announced, live to all of Panem, his intention to dedicate the 72nd Hunger Games to his granddaughter in honour of her tenth birthday, Eirwen had been attending a difficult birth – twins, the second born breech, the mother exhausted from eight previous pregnancies and complicated births. The ancient television had projected above the crib in which three babies already slept snugly, and as Eirwen had counted time between contractions, they had talked quietly about how atrocious it was, President Snow gifting his ten-year-old granddaughter with the slaughter of children for her amusement.

They had watched Caesar Flickerman do a special broadcast, interviewing Miss Snow on the elaborate plans for her birthday – detailing the parties, the cakes, the clothes and jewellery she was to wear, the preliminary guest-lists of school friends, fashion designers and lusted-after Victors – and the specifics she had given "Grandpa" to make these Hunger Games special.

As Eirwen had carefully unhooked the baby's legs, letting it hang for a moment, a towel draped gently on the body, gravity doing its job to reposition the baby's shoulders, allowing easier passage of the head to prevent suffocation, then coaxed the mother to gently push, all she could think was, when this child reached ten years old, she would be lucky to receive a ribbon. And a further two years, she would have her name put into the reaping bowl. What a lovely gift.

But the twins had been born, healthy and safe, despite the complications of the second, and the district spent the next few weeks chuntering and whispering about the ridiculous opulence of the Capitol, the sheer _wrongness_ of granting a child the birthday-present of a massacre in her honour. They talked about the gossip Caesar Flickerman circulated on his television-show, both about the little girl's birthday celebrations, and the amendments to the year's Hunger Games to make sure they were spectacular.

"It all adds to the flavour," Caesar Flickerman had said, chuckling when Miss Snow had dimpled, teasing that she couldn't give Caesar even a hint of "what Grandpa has promised; he's been sitting with Seneca".

Seneca Crane. This was his first Hunger Games as Head Gamemaker. Historically, every new Head Gamemaker's first Hunger Games were their best.

And if he was supposed to create Games to honour the President's doted granddaughter, well, they had better be _spectacular_.

No more blighted desert arenas, no single weapon the tributes had to bludgeon each other to death with. Nothing dull. Nothing they had ever seen before.

Or it was Crane's head.

The tributes for the 72nd Hunger Games were to be invited to the Capitol a month early, so they could be included in the birthday celebrations. Before they were sent into the arena.

With barely four hours' darkness during the summer months, daylight had already spread across their land when Eirwen meandered down to the sound on reaping day, the water churning with salmon – and off the shore, the recognisable black dorsal fins of the killer-whale. It was a tradition, in their district, amongst her friends, to congregate at the beach the morning of the reaping. The girls in their prettiest dresses, the boys turned out handsomely, and they caught salmon, roasting them over an open flame, while they flirted in the surf. With the sun baking the stones twenty hours a day during the brief summer, a luxury in their district was walking around barefoot, as they did all summer; the boys laughed amongst each other, whispering and grinning, before trying to splash the girls' flimsy cotton skirts.

One last feast, one last flirt – because it could very well be any of them going to their deaths later that afternoon.

"Happy Hunger Games," Russ crowed, raising a flake of salmon, his smile lethal and sardonic: in a chorus, the rest laughed, putting on the Capitol affectation they mocked Dorabella Blithe for, "and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour".

"Come on, don't tease," Astrid grinned, her eyes sparkling as she reached out to swat his backside. "Just because we're almost out of the pool."

"There's just today, sweet," Russ sighed, his features softening as he gazed down at Astrid; he was tall as an evergreen, his hair flaming red, a handsome boy known to take point when he and his brothers went whale-hunting. A single whale could feed hundreds of them through the winter. There was no waste in their community. And they were a community; each person helped the other. And when Russ and Astrid married on midsummer's eve, they would move into the cabin he and his brothers and friends had been building for them. It was tradition. Eirwen's stomach hurt sometimes, seeing how in love Russ and Astrid were. She was the only person who could make Russ' features go tender like that: and he was the only one who drew shy Astrid out of her shell. They complemented each other so perfectly, and their joy in each other's company was infectious.

Eirwen didn't have a boyfriend; she had kissed boys – quite a few of them! And she enjoyed keeping warm with them in the winter, as one of Russ' brothers could attest to – but she had never been in love.

Of all the women in the district, she had a _career_ of sorts; she was the midwife. And day or night, sun or blizzard, she had to be there to help deliver babies. Especially because Griet was now incapable of doing so. Eirwen spent the least amount of time at school, because she had to be there to tend to the women who had just given birth, had to be there _for_ the births, ran the weekly clinic for check-ups, examined the pregnant women and gave an educated guess of their due-dates, helped prepare first-time mothers for what to expect, inspected their homes for home-delivery… She was a busy girl.

She didn't have _time _for a boy.

But that didn't mean she didn't yearn for one. For love.

"Who d'you think it'll be this year?" Max asked. The same question they asked quietly every year, a hint of dread creeping into their voices, their expressions darkening. Last year had been awful; two twelve-year-olds, slaughtered within minutes of the cannon firing the start the Games.

The little girl's father had decided to pick a fight with a polar-bear this winter. As for the little boy – Eirwen had delivered what would have been his baby-sister only three months ago. Her mother had sunk into a deep depression since then, leaving an elder daughter to care for the baby and two other children.

"Best not think about it too much," Isidore sighed, her brow drawing in a faint line. "We'll only upset ourselves."

"We've still got an hour or so before the hovercraft arrive," Luc said, eyeing the sun. "Let's not let them spoil the entire day." Schools were closed and all businesses were shut on reaping day; every citizen, unless bedbound, had to be present. And while the adults tended to have a lie-in before getting their children ready, the teenagers knew this was the one day when the rules of conduct were waived.

Reaping day was also the one day of the year when social rules grew lax about their teenaged children. Usually the girls were so closely guarded by their fathers and brothers, a few Peacekeepers had even gone inexplicably missing when they had made an attempt at some of the pretty older girls. And while nudity was completely commonplace, due to the communal bathhouses, everyone was unclothed and therefore it wasn't thought about, _sex_ was taboo. Lewd jokes were unheard of, and while bums were pinched cheekily in the schoolyard during break, a hand brushed against a soft breast during the spring dances, conspicuous couples disappeared in the meadows and got caught out by the woodpiles in winter going for a grope, to become pregnant whilst unmarried was seen as the height of stupidity in their district, a disappointment to their parents. There had never been a child born out of wedlock.

Except for Eirwen, though nobody ever said it aloud: They all believed Eirwen's mother, whoever she had been, had been a teenager concealing her pregnancy out of fear. Griet had known every mother in the district, tended to every birth but Eirwen's. She had been a tiny newborn abandoned in midwinter on Griet's doorstep, perhaps her mother had hoped she would freeze to death before Griet found her. But find her Griet had; she had named her, raised her, and Eirwen hadn't just survived. She had thrived.

Sometimes, Eirwen did wonder about who her parents were. Whether they saw her every day and felt a stab in their heart from guilt – that they had been careless enough to bring her into the world, and abandoned her for something she had had no say in. Nobody had asked her to be born unwanted.

It wasn't long before the hovercraft emerged on the horizon – they always got a good amount of warning-time, the horizon so clear from such a great height. And as ever, they tried to achieve joy while the Capitol representatives brought the equipment, the Peacekeepers, the temporary stage, the cameras for the televised reaping.

Eirwen never knew what instrument they used to create the sound that called the children to the square. She couldn't describe it, but they all knew that sound. It meant dread; it meant certain death. It meant the might of the Capitol could steal children from their beds and force them to fight to the death for sport.

The fun of the morning was over: the fire was doused, they washed their hands and faces in the cool water, and before they turned toward the small Justice Building, they stopped. And embraced. They held onto each other, longer than they ever would usually hug. Because this could be goodbye. Faces sombre, the merriment of the morning doused as completely as their beachside fire, they linked hands and made their way to the square.

There were a half-dozen shops, built from wood with elevated verandas covered with wide porches, the easier to access them in winter when the snow piled up to the windows of the second-storey of the Justice Building. It was one of the only stone buildings in the district – the only others were the fine houses of the Victors' Village – imposing and ugly. It served as the barracks for the Peacekeepers, who resented spending half the year snowed inside it, cut off from the Capitol due to the intense storms of early-winter that buried communication lines for months. And all the while, the people of 9 lived on as they ever did, largely ignoring all but the most decent Peacekeepers – and getting rid of the atrocious ones no other District commander would tolerate.

The square was already set up for the Capitol broadcasts; the cameras were ready, Peacekeepers in spotless white uniforms stood at attention, the Justice Building had been given a hose-down and a small stage had been erected before it, two enormous glass bowls dominating it. So far, they were empty: when the Peacekeepers had taken their high-tech blood roll-call, they would fill with as many white slips of paper as computers calculated were due each child.

In other districts, children could apply for tesserae, an extra ration of oil and grain, for each person in their family. It was never enough – but in 9, they were so isolated, left so much to their own devices, that they never asked for extra food. They made do with what they had, as they had always done.

The alarm had called forth every eligible child in the district; fewer than five-hundred were waiting to have their fingers pricked, to give their sample of blood so the Capitol could keep track of the population, and as each one was cleared by a Peacekeeper at a neat desk, they were segregated by gender in front of the Justice Building. Unless you were on your death-bed, or about to deliver your child, every adult was forced to attend the reaping. Eirwen knew Griet was attending the delivery of Mrs Forsythe, who'd been kept in bed for months due to preeclampsia.

People gave way to the adults who had children in the pool, the better to keep an eye on them; mothers stood white-knuckled, clutching each other's hands for support. And the fathers, they stood stoic and tall, trying not to let their emotions show.

* * *

He hated the reaping. There was nothing _right_ about it. Not the ridiculous opulence of Dorabella Blithe's jewelled velvet heels, or the perfumed powder on her hair, the painted talons at the tips of her fingers, or the honestly quite terrifying cosmetics caked over her features: not the children lined up in their best clothes, freshly bathed and turned out so prettily, each face miserable, tear-stained, stricken with heart-stopping panic: or the parents, sombre and helpless, praying on every star they knew, calling to every ancestor, every tribute sent as sacrifice for protection, to not let it be _their_ child…

Dorabella Blithe, teetering on her heelless platform shoes as her lavender wig trembled in the breeze, appeared on the temporary stage, cooed "Welcome, welcome, to the 72nd annual Hunger Games. And – may the odds be _ever_ in your favour." The obligatory film was screened for all to see – they were all word-perfect on President Snow's lecture now – and Dorabella sighed, clapping her hands and giving a little giggle, before straightening her shoulders and smiling.

"The fairest first," she simpered, her obscure turquoise eyelashes flickering in the breeze.

How had it ever come about that _this_ woman was considered the height of attractiveness in the Capitol? How had _this_ become the ideal of beauty? In 9, they were either very dark, with beautiful curling hair and long lashes, or extremely fair, with blonde hair and fawn-coloured freckles. Or, like his oldest friend Mattias' ever-expanding brood of twenty-five children, tall and strong as evergreens with flame-red hair, handsome and good-natured. In 9, the older man was considered desirable – age and scars begat strength and experience, which meant survival. They could care for their wife and a family that inevitably followed.

Dagonet had no wife, no children. He remained tucked in his small cabin, surrounded by the giant malamutes he bred, eschewing the luxuries of the Capitol his position as Victor had granted him… He had given away his house in the Victors' Village, where four sprawling families lived comfortably, and spent his blood-money on medical supplies and morphling for Griet, whose mind was wavering – though whether she was just being naughty was undecided. He and the foundling Griet had raised had to keep her out of trouble with new Peacekeepers, who didn't understand the mesmerising, ancient woman's habits, her fetish for cake, her magpie-like tendencies down at the black-market in the old fishing depot, or her habit of spouting ancient poetry, astrology and fairy-stories, sticking her tongue out when she was given a telling-off.

He knew Griet and her foundling had delivered every child in 9 into the world: it was he, as mentor, who rode the glittering train with them to the Capitol, heard them crying themselves to sleep every night after training, watched them being pampered and plucked by the stylists and paraded around in costume shortly before they were brutally cut down without mercy. He accompanied the plain wooden boxes back to 9.

Every year, he had to do this.

Sixty-two children. There hadn't been a Victor from 9 since Dagonet himself had survived his own Games. That was thirty years ago. He had been crowned Victor of the 41st Hunger Games. Thirty-one years…it seemed like an eternity had passed.

He stayed out of town, tucked in his cabin in the wilderness with his dogs, because to see these children, to know them, had always made it so much worse. In the beginning, he had tried. Over time, he had discovered it was better to keep his distance. Last year had been one of the worst, though there were a dozen more Games he would like to forget, details he remembered only too well about the children slaughtered during them.

Some had done well, survived into the final eight; he had done what he could for them. But he was neither popular with the Capitol nor good at much besides training his dogs. This community was where he was at his most useful, using his wealth to help rebuild when disaster struck – the mudslide eighteen months ago that had killed two-hundred in a single hour; the Capitol had watched on from their plush sofas and done nothing – in the Capitol, he stuck out like the scarred backwoodsman they all knew he was.

He hadn't won his Games because he was cleverer than the other tributes, more handsome or charismatic, drawing the sponsors. He had won through sheer size and brutality alone. And he had done it for them – his district. Because he knew the wealth Victors gained throughout their lifetimes would make an exceptional difference to the quality of the lives of those in his community. He had sold his soul for his district, though they didn't know it. Would never burden them with that guilt, that he had murdered innocent children _for them_.

He had given up the house in the Victors' Village, used his blood-money to buy medical supplies, bread and fabric, fruit and vegetables for preserving to keep the district going through the winter…nothing extravagant. Nothing for himself. He hunted or fished every day, helped build cabins for newlyweds, escorted Griet's little foundling on his malamute-drawn sled when she was called to deliver babies during the worst of the winter storms, and when he was called to the Capitol every year, he scared the ridiculous Caesar Flickerman shitless bringing his favourite dog onstage.

Simple pleasures.

He was almost too distracted by Dorabella Blithe's violent metallic orange lipstick to hear the name she announced over the microphone. Astrid Darby.

A gasp shuddered on the silent air, and a heavy _thud_ announced Mattias' son Russ had fallen to his knees, already sobbing in grief, head in his hands. Dagonet knew all Mattias' children – all twenty-five of them – had helped build the two-storey cabin for Russ and his fiancée Astrid to live in when they married on midsummer's eve… He knew, because he had been sitting with Griet in the parlour, that Eirwen, Griet's little foundling, had done a preliminary examination of Astrid in the kitchen to confirm her gleeful suspicions that she was carrying a child.

With the end in sight – this was their last reaping, Russ and Astrid, so popular in their community – and their wedding fast approaching, why wouldn't they have consummated their love?

_What are the odds…_? he mused sorrowfully. Russ' sobs were those of a man whose soul was being ripped apart – Dagonet heard them each year when they buried the two little sacrifices.

Pregnant. A wedding… Russ. There was Astrid, pretty and in shock. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, wide and terrified. Her last year, her last reaping…she was to be married in June. She had a vicelike grip on the hand of her friend… Eirwen.

And for a moment, Dagonet's attention was drawn entirely to that young woman. Eirwen had been apprenticed to Griet since childhood, a companion to the mad old woman all her life, the only child in the district ever to be abandoned; and though she was quiet, there was always a lot more going on inside her head. Dagonet had never seen her so much as glance at one of Griet's books, but she could recite an entire Shakespeare play from memory. She could measure just by feel and sight how many weeks along a woman was, how much the baby would weigh to the ounce, could diagnose illnesses by sight and smell alone. And she was an excellent hunter: one of his few indulgences was spending time with Griet's little foundling. He had taught her to hunt, to fish, he had taught her all of the knowledge his father had instilled in him. She knew how to_ survive_; and there had been many a scare when the worst winter blizzards had arrived and women needed a midwife – and she had gone out into the snow with her kit and her own dog. To help. Because that was what she had been raised to do; to deliver babies and sew up wounds. No-one would have blamed her for not braving the white-outs; but she _couldn't_ when she knew there was someone out there who needed her help.

For a moment, Dagonet saw disbelief, agony and sorrow flicker across Eirwen's face; then her stunning features smoothed out, became cool, indifferent – fearsome. She physically had to detach Astrid's fingers from her own, straightened her shoulders, her back ramrod straight as Griet had taught her to stand, her chin up, and when she moved, it was with a lethal grace mixed with purpose that looked almost predatory…and _regal_.

Eirwen was, and it was no secret, the most stunning girl in 9. Above average height, she had a willowy, supple figure with high, lovely breasts and a narrow waist. But her height, not even her waistline were mesmerising about her: it was her features. She had learned young to school her features, never letting anxiety or squeamishness show or risk losing her patients' trust in her abilities. That mask left nothing to distract from the sheer perfection of her features: exquisite cheekbones that could cut glass, succulent lips beautifully shaped and plump, a dainty nose, and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots in frost, pale, almost invisible eyebrows, fine lashes and her hair... Griet had named her prophetically; 'Eirwen' was an ancient name that meant 'snow', and her hair was the palest blonde.

Dagonet had never seen her wear her hair in any way but parted at the centre, the long locks plaited into thick coils looped behind her ears, shining like a halo in the sun. As a child, Griet had plaited flowers and colourful ribbons into those plaits during the mayday festival and midsummer dances. Now they were left plain, and looked even more beautiful for their simplicity, smoothed back from her face, combed neatly, shining and clean.

She was and had always been endearingly unconscious of her own beauty, and the gentle, sultry voice she used so effectively. There were many ways to describe Eirwen: self-possessed, unfailingly kind, and composed even in the most devastating circumstances. Unruffled.

There was always more going on beneath her flawless physical appearance than she ever let on. And in that moment when agony and sorrow were displace by indifference and a formidable calmness, Dagonet watched something happen. The young, self-sacrificing midwife who risked her life to help anyone who needed her shone through; she looked as she always did when Dagonet dropped her at a patient's house in the dead of winter on his dog-drawn sled.

Serene, fearless.

With her head held high, back ramrod straight and her features schooled into an expression of utmost…_disdain_, as if all of this were simply beneath her, she walked up the aisle between the segregated children, leaving Astrid frozen behind after physically breaking the hold Astrid had on her hand. The local Peacekeepers gave startled frowns, knowing this girl was not Astrid: chin up, expression cool, she looked up at Dorabella Blithe from the aisle and said, without bothering to raise her voice, "I volunteer as sacrifice."

Dorabella's queer turquoise eyelashes fluttered in astonishment. A ripple ran through the crowd; Russ' tearstained face appeared from behind his hands, aghast, not believing what he had heard, and he staggered off the ground, friends clapping hands on his back, though they were all pale-faced as they watched Eirwen pass.

"Well, I'll be!" Dorabella tittered. "There's never such _excitement_ here in this desolate place! A volunteer – I'd wager District 9's _first_ ever, too! Well, for many years, anyway – wouldn't you say, Dagonet? You're the only one to remember – besides Griet, and she never graces us with _her_ presence anymore."

Dagonet's insides had disappeared. _Not her_.

Usually a selected tribute had to be escorted up onstage. But nearly every Peacekeeper here – there were so few, barely a dozen – had been treated by Eirwen at least once. And to know her was to admire and love her. They seemed rooted to the spot like the children and adults Dagonet believed had all stopped breathing. Eirwen had volunteered.

Walking up to the stage, Eirwen looked…almost _regal_. Composed, serene, her chin high, even though she was barefoot; her snow-white dress of tissue-thin cotton sewn with tiny white forget-me-nots glowed in the sunshine, her hair vibrant like a halo, her beautiful face clear of emotion and chillingly perfect because of it, and as Dorabella tittered and reached to hustle Eirwen onstage, Eirwen gave her a look of such scorching disdain, Dorabella withdrew her hand as if she had upset a bear-trap.

Dorabella cleared her throat, giving a nervous giggle, and cooed into the microphone, "Now, what's your name, dear?"

"Eirwen Hardy," she said softly.

"Well, how _marvellous_ we finally have something exciting here in District 9. Was that your sister, a cousin?"

"No." Dorabella's smile dipped a little. Dagonet knew what she was thinking; _a Career_? There was nothing spectacular about Career tributes. Districts 1, 2 and 4 were notorious for training their children in elite academies before they volunteered at eighteen. Those Districts usually won. Unless their food-source was destroyed.

Dagonet stared across the temporary pavilion, uneasiness creeping over his skin like a swarming lava. _Not her_…

"Well, let's get along to the young gentlemen, shall we?" Dorabella trilled. Someone snorted in the audience. Gentlemen? She tottered over to the second bowl full of little white slips, paused for dramatic effect, then her talon-tipped hand shot straight out, plucking one piece of paper from the lot.

"Wulf Rutherford," Dorabella called. And he closed his eyes. Russ' fiancée Astrid may have escaped the reaping – but his comedic acrobat brother had just been sentenced to the arena.

Twelve-year-old Wulf scowled as he trudged up the aisle, huffed as he mounted the stage, and ignoring Dorabella's request for them to shake hands, he had given her a withering eye-roll, frowned up at Eirwen as if he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, before throwing his arms around her waist, hugging her tight, face hidden in her stomach. For a moment, Eirwen blinked, startled, before her features softened, and she appeared to melt, tenderly hugging Wulf to her, a slender-fingered hand splaying on his back, a thumb stroking the back of his neck as she murmured something inaudible before kissing his vibrant red hair.

"Let's have a round of applause for our two tributes – Eirwen Hardy and Wulf Rutherford!" Dorabella trilled, clapping her glittery-gloved hands. To their credit, not a single person applauded. But the shock had broken: the two names had been called; and Russ stood with Astrid wrapped in his arms, both of them in silent tears. Dagonet could see Russ' face turned to the stage, eyes on his younger-brother. The audience were starting to filter off, parents claiming their children, safe for another year. The Peacekeepers were helping to dismantle everything; and Mattias and his wife – clutching her newborn – were making their way toward the Justice Building. Trailed by their children, the babies held by the children already out of the reaping pool. All of them pale-faced.

Families and friends were given an hour to say goodbye before the train took the two tributes to the Capitol. Dorabella would be fixing her hair, spritzing more cloying perfume and reapplying her unsightly lipstick. Dagonet, sitting in his room with his head in his hands, trying to pull himself together long enough to sit in front of two children and tell them that hope _wasn't_ lost.

As Eirwen's white dress flickered out of sight, being led into the Justice Building by Dorabella, Dagonet wondered, where was Griet?

* * *

**A.N.**: Hi everyone! So I should probably explain – I'm writing the 72nd Hunger Games: it will be OCxOC to begin with, and it has to be, because without that, Eirwen wouldn't be the kind of girl I want for Gale. She has to be strong as steel, **decisive**, intuitive and level-headed, unfailingly kind and smarter and more skilled than she ever lets on, because that's where the true advantage is, in being "unexpected" – which is another way of saying 'underestimated'.

And she has to look at Gale and say, _He's_ the one I want. No indecisiveness, no ifs and buts and maybe I could be betters: she wants him, and she dares to let him know it.

I've been realising how self-absorbed and flighty Katniss can be. In _Mockingjay_, it's all about her – and she's constantly going between Gale and Peeta, whenever the situation shifts in the other's favour. I think she was _awful_ about Peeta's circumstances in _Mockingjay_. So I'm changing that.

Everyone who's ever read any of my other stories, you know how much I like to 'fix' things!


	2. Doubts Before a Decision

**A.N.**: Remember this story is rated T (for now!) There are _references_ in this chapter… Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story. It really is appreciated; I'm loving my ideas for the story, so it's exciting that you're all anticipating me writing it!

* * *

**The Snow Queen**

_02_

"_A ____weak man has doubts__ before a decision. A strong man has them afterwards."_

* * *

Eirwen waited. There was traditionally an hour before the chaperones removed the year's tributes to the Capitol, where they remained in custody until the Games, for the families and friends of the tributes to say goodbye. Because only one ever returned home. And none were ever the same.

Russ and Astrid stayed for ten minutes: Russ enveloped her in his strong arms, and didn't let go. He didn't speak; nor did Astrid, who stood, silently weeping. She was finally able only to give Eirwen just the briefest hug, blinded by tears, and a tiny kiss on the cheek before Russ had to support her out of the room. Russ had another goodbye to see to – Eirwen could hear the plaintive sobs of Russ and Wulf's other twenty-three siblings all saying goodbye to their favourite brother. Wulf was easily the best-loved of the Rutherford hoard, a comedic genius with acrobatic tendencies… Eirwen believed he could have a chance at outlasting the majority of the other tributes, without even setting eyes on them.

Without having to guess, Eirwen knew the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 especially would be Careers – bigger, more cunning and better-fed than any other District. But arrogant, with practical mastery of weapons but not of essential survival skills. The only years tributes from other districts had won were those years when the Careers' food-sources had been destroyed, either by other tributes or by 'natural' disasters within the arenas orchestrated by Gamemakers tucked safely in a sterile white control-room.

The Capitol would piece together a show to broadcast to all of Panem after Effie Trinket had announced District 12's tributes: those in the Capitol could watch each Reaping live, the process staggered throughout the day in each district. So they would have already seen Eirwen volunteer her name; nobody had ever volunteered in 9 before. It was tantamount to suicide.

Eirwen waited, just…breathing. Frowning. Trying to decide what on earth she had gotten herself into. The Hunger Games. A lethal television-show she hated to watch, had to endure each year by the Capitol's laws, a glittering spectacle devised by the President to instil fear in the Districts and admiration in the Capitol… The televised interviews with the disgusting Caesar Flickerman – she wondered what colour his hair and lipstick would be this year. The tributes stripped of who they were so the stylists in the Capitol could dress them up like dolls, polished for the Capitol crowds who knew nothing of hunger, of terror.

Before the first half-hour was up, the Peacekeepers had packed everything up and left the tiny square without a trace – only the two-dozen people weeping in the next room showed the mark the Capitol had made on their community only an hour ago.

Eirwen wondered how many families were on their knees with grief today. Not half as many who were celebrating yet another year where their children had come through the reaping safely. A quiet moment, when the Capitol aired the recap of the District reaping ceremonies, to feel the grief of the parents whose children's names _had_ been called. To anticipate the brutality they would face, the gruesome murders they would all be forced to watch, to wince and try to go to sleep later that night with their children whimpering from nightmares…

She wondered what Wulf would face. At present, she had no fear for herself – just a stomach-ache at the knowledge Griet had probably forgotten, a moment after Eirwen had volunteered, that she should be screaming with grief, rushing to the Justice Building to say goodbye, give all sorts of advice, promise Eirwen was strong enough to return home… But Eirwen knew Griet's mind better than most, knew better than any how it was failing with every passing day. Some days were better than others, and today had been one of the good ones. She was in her element, helping deliver a baby…Eirwen would leave her there, forbid Griet to watch these Games. Wouldn't be difficult; without Eirwen there to take care of her, Griet would…

Griet would be completely dependent on the rest of the community to care for her. No Eirwen to help her dress, make her breakfast, correct the knitting when she dropped a stitch, sit with her while she recited poetry, or pay the baker a pittance for the cakes Griet inevitably would wander off with. No Dagonet to go after her with his dogs when Griet woke early and wandered off into the wild… It had happened; she had given Eirwen minor heart-attacks numerous times in the last few years. Eirwen would wake, and Griet would be missing; they would find her, hours later, with no memory of where she had been or what she had done.

Eirwen gazed unseeingly out of the window into the bright sunshine. The Peacekeepers were gone; she could hear Wulf's siblings crying goodbyes, vaguely saw blurred images of children in their best clothes being ushered by young-adults out of the building. She heard the deep voice of Mr Rutherford in the next room, Mrs Rutherford's choked voice crying gently – and jumped a foot when the door opened, and someone all in white whipped their helmet off.

"You _stupid _gir—"

Handsome and, now, irate, Cicero's dark eyes flashed, brimming with tears, as Eirwen let out a shuddering gasp and flew at him; tall and strong, he caught her, though he stumbled back, tucking his face to her neck, and squashed her tight to his armoured body. Only twenty, Cicero had arrived in District 9 barely eighteen months ago, but made such an impression on the people of 9 during the brutal mudslide that had claimed so many lives, he was widely regarded as a leader within the community – rather than an aggressive outsider who sought only to punish for the sake of having the power to do so. They loved him here; a great-hearted, decent young man they respected. If it weren't for the white Peacekeeper uniform, they would have forgotten he was their law-enforcer.

And when she carefully helped him out of the beetle-like shell uniform, she knew his body was well-nourished and burnished by the sun. She knew the strength in his hips, the way her stomach would become molten with desire at the warmth of his lips against the one spot at the base of her neck; she knew the delicious heat and scent of his skin, how his dark hair curled when it grew sweaty. She knew the feel of his body pressed flush to hers. They had their secrets. And they would forever remain secret: he was a Peacekeeper, forbidden a wife for his twenty-year service to the Capitol.

And, love him as she knew she did, she wouldn't wait those twenty years.

It hardly mattered now: she was condemned, after all.

Twenty-four of them, and only one came out alive.

The shock was beginning to wear off; had she been in shock? She must have been. Now the reality of what she had done was truly starting to make sense to her. She had volunteered for the Hunger Games.

Only one came out alive.

She mentally finished Cicero's outburst – _You stupid girl!_

Cicero gasped slightly, resting his hands on her waist to gently push her away, making her release her hold on him. But he didn't drop his hands. Handsome face, but a strain she had never seen had appeared at his eyes, around his mouth, and he was paler than usual. It was the kind of look people assumed when she had to confirm what they had been denying to themselves, that a loved-one was dying. And there was nothing they could do to stop it.

"Just…remember that this," Cicero said, for the first time struggling to speak. He was pale, his voice didn't sound like his own, and her midwifery training came to the fore, tempted to brush his hair from his forehead to calm him. Cicero was young, but when he spoke, people listened. "This…isn't about _saving_ lives. I know your instincts. The day we met, I got the measure of you, down to your marrow."

Eirwen blinked, trying to suppress the feeling in her stomach that had started to bubble ever since the shock started wearing off… _Only one comes out alive_. 'Down to her marrow', what did that mean? The day she had met Cicero had been one of his first in the District, the dreadful day when the mudslide had happened. She and Dagonet had been two of the first to throw themselves into the rescue effort, Dagonet because of his strength and fearless unconcern for his own safety, Eirwen, because of her medical training.

Any other Peacekeeper, in such a devastating tragedy, would have been completely out of their element, paralysed with shock at what had happened. And most likely, as had happened in occasions past, done nothing to help. District lives were expendable; it was just their bad lot that they had been exiled out in 9. Few Peacekeepers _wanted_ to be stationed in 9.

Except Cicero. He came from a wealthy Capitol family; but Peacekeeping was what he had always wanted to do. To make a difference in the Districts; because if he was out there, being decent to people who couldn't defend themselves, it was one less position available to hard-hearted brutes who swallowed Capitol propaganda blind. He'd come out to 9 to make a difference. And he was.

But Cicero had thrown off his mask, ditched his gun and grabbed ropes, all the first-aid equipment in the Justice Building and assembled a rescue-team of volunteers, and together they had rescued fifty-four people. Eirwen had had to patch them up; some of the injuries had been horrific. Some had even had bits missing. A baby had even been born that day, the heavily-pregnant mother rescued from a rooftop: she had named her child Sisi, a feminine variation inspired by Cicero's name.

Cicero hadn't just come to 9 because it was his job, and he'd had no choice in the matter. He'd arrived, and he'd made the most of it; he'd _cared_. And because of that, people respected him. That was something they couldn't say of any previous Peacekeeper, a Commander or otherwise. And Cicero was just a foot-soldier. The only power he had in 9 was the power the District gave him because they respected him.

Not too long after the mudslide, they had started to rebuild: Cicero had helped put up barns, a new home for a family who had completely lost everything, secured the roads with wooden supports, even brought in emergency supplies from the Capitol – who had stood by and watched, a camera-crew sent in to video everything, without lifting a finger to help.

One day, Eirwen had found herself admiring the shape of his lips. And shortly after that, he had escorted her into the barracks, a strictly all-male place in District 9, to tend to the wounds inflicted on a Peacekeeper who had brushed a polar-bear the wrong way. Surrounded by men used to getting their way, any other girl would have trembled; her head held high, Eirwen had done her job, treated the Peacekeeper, and didn't realise it until she had finished bandaging the stitched wounds, but Cicero hadn't stepped away from her side for a moment.

She had noticed he went out of his way to be courteous to and protective of the women in 9. He was respectful and polite to the older men, laughed and playfully rough-housed with the younger ones, even taught the boys a game called 'football' favoured by Capitol boys to keep active, and had been known to coax brave tree-climbing girls down from the loftier branches when they realised they were too frightened to climb back down.

After the incident with the polar-bear's victim, Eirwen had noticed Cicero more and more; several times, during the dead of night, he had escorted her to various homes to tend to women in labour. After a particularly difficult, prolonged delivery, he'd escorted her home, and sat with her at the kitchen-table as her favourite liquorice tea brewed in the pot. It must have been an hour, she'd sat silent and exhausted, but wired, upset by the delivery but glad it was over and baby was safe. That specific delivery had been the most harrowing in Eirwen's experience as a midwife.

The next time she'd seen Cicero, Eirwen had thrown her shoulders back, pinned him against the back wall of the general store, and kissed him fiercely.

He'd been wanting to do the same to her for weeks.

And after the first few times, passionate kisses giving way to panting moans as hands wandered, they had found themselves snowed out of Griet's house late one night after he had escorted her back from a late delivery. The barn was easier to access, and the loft full of hay; it had become their haunt, the one place away from prying eyes and whispers where only they knew about. And oh, the blushes they would have garnered if people had learned what Eirwen and Cicero got up to there.

She didn't have a boyfriend. She met Cicero after agonising deliveries and difficult, drawn-out deathbed visits, or when he'd been forced by his Commander to give a flogging, upset and full of pent-up rage. After the first time – she remembered it so explicitly, the storm outside, the fire blazing within, the softness of the hay beneath her, the searing heat and exquisite taste of his skin, the breathless kisses, the exquisite terror working into her marrow as they reached the final, sharp push they had been working toward for weeks, the deliciousness of every powerful thrust of his hips, the fullness, his rippling muscles, her trembling hands clawing at his back as she cried out, wanting more, harder, deeper, now used to the way his finger could find that one spot and manipulate her entire body to a shuddering, tightly-wound explosive device…and _gods_, when he had sought it with his lips after… She now knew the passion that could bring baby after baby to the families of 9, understood it, where before she had been perplexed and rather shy of the details.

Yes, she had no boyfriend. She had Cicero.

The secret friend who made her toes curl, and smothered her screams in the middle of the night with kisses, when he snuck into Griet's to give Eirwen a seeing-to, making a game of how silent they could be no matter what he did to her. He was naughty – and she was worse.

Cicero had been the first she'd let near her – he'd lit an amorous fire within her that little could sate. Just him, at least twice a night, or again in the morning before he slipped out of the barn still brushing straw from his hair.

If she focused too long on those memories of the hay-loft, or tucked under her quilt, even hiding Cicero once when Griet had wandered in to tell her off for stealing cake, Eirwen might be likely to faint from terror – she had volunteered…for the Hunger Games. _Only one comes out_…

"Every time," Cicero said, his lips going white, blinking furiously, "every time that cannon goes off is one more opportunity you have to come home…"

Eirwen gave a tremulous smile. "You're telling a midwife not to save a life."

Cicero's hands – so familiar, their weight comforting – left her narrow waist, gently cupping her cheeks. He rested his forehead against hers, his expression pained. "I'm telling her to come home, where she'll do a world of good." He blinked, licked his lips and gave her an anguished look. "Get through this, there's an entire community waiting to repay every kindness you've ever done them, to help piece you back together when whatever you're going to endure has nearly broken you." Eirwen gazed up at him, her eyes burning. _Only one comes out_…

"You really believe I have any chance of coming home?" she whispered sceptically.

"With every fibre of my _being_," Cicero said, without hesitation. "Winning the Games is about being fearless. Not even flinching at the brutality of gaping wounds, shattered bones, dismembered bodies. You've seen all that and more. The mudslide… You already know how to get out. Dagonet taught you."

"To _hunt_," Eirwen winced, because, really…how was it any different, an animal, a human-being? She'd been to enough lessons and seen enough of nature to know they were all made of the same stuff, all evolved – if the books were correct, they were the 'higher evolution' of primates. She didn't know that that extended to the people who lived in the Capitol. She'd seen some of their fashions on Caesar Flickerman's show.

"I've seen you work, Eirwen," Cicero said solemnly. "When you hunt, you only kill what you need to survive. It's the same way in the arena. Kill when you need to survive - and hide when you know you can't."

"It's not just about killing, Cicero," Eirwen whispered. She tugged on the hem of her dress anxiously. She hated to admit it, but, "I know I can kill, if I must. It's… The Capitol _loves_ 1 and 2."

"The Capitol loves _beauty_," Cicero said, and he would know: she had seen the photograph he kept of his sisters inside his uniform. They were absolutely stunning, though not as ridiculously dressed as Dorabella Blithe or Effie Trinket or the other female chaperones. "They worship it; they get into debt pursuing perfection. And you are it."

"Cicero –" Eirwen blurted, flushing deeply. She didn't believe that for a moment – her, perfection? She could count her ribs, her cheekbones stuck out too much, there was no definition to her eyebrows – her hands were lovely, yes, her one beauty, her one _vanity_, but she wasn't lush, curvaceous, sexy.

"It's true," Cicero said fiercely, his eyes flashing. "You are _stunning_. Any stylist worth their salt will utilise your beauty as your greatest weapon before you even enter the arena. Use that – let all Panem think you're just a beautiful little orphan girl," he advised. Because they didn't have much time, she knew. He blinked, swallowing, and glanced around the small room. "Don't let the others know what you're capable of, until it's too late. Because I know what you're capable of…" He sighed, his shoulders slanting. "You were supposed to die in those snows, Eirwen; instead you thrived. You're a survivor." A reference, she knew, to the fact her parents had abandoned her in midwinter to freeze to death as a newborn. But she hadn't. Cicero murmured, "And we need you here."

They needed her in 9. Besides Griet, she was the only practicing midwife the community of women trusted: she had been trained by Griet. She had seen everything and come out the other side; Griet was the law on midwifery in these parts. And Eirwen took after her. If Eirwen wasn't here to take over as midwife, who…who would the women of 9 go to when they needed help?

Who would look after Griet?

"I didn't… I didn't even think of her," she whispered hoarsely, her eyes and throat burning. "Myself and Dagonet both gone. All I thought was… I suppose I wasn't." She gazed up at Cicero, her soul roiling in a sudden agony. _Griet_. Griet never spoke of her Games: she had survived. There were no 'winners'. She had her suspicions about the most popular Victor, Finnick Odair, who took so many lovers in the Capitol… Nobody whored because they wanted to… How would Griet react to watching Eirwen, whom she had rescued from certain-death in the snowbanks, participating in the Games? And because of President Snow's granddaughter, these Games were going to be particularly spectacular. She gulped down the hot lump that had formed at the base of her throat. It felt like acidic snakes bubbling in her stomach. "I-I don't want Griet watching… And if she gets into trouble in the black-market, or if she wanders off in the morning –"

Cicero's demeanour became calm, sombre…earnest. "I'll look after her, make sure she comes to no harm. I know Dagonet will be in the Capitol with you, he always finds her…" He gave her a guilty half-smile. Everyone loved Griet; it was impossible not to love the eccentric, naughty old girl. "If I have to lock her inside the house overnight, I will."

"And… Cicero, if…if I don't come out of the arena, I don't…" Her time was running out – literally. How soon until Dorabella Blithe escorted her to the train-station? It was walking-distance from the Justice Building; the domesticated area of 9 was tiny, after all. How long did she have to say her goodbyes, to make sure she said what she had been struggling for months to work out, though she still didn't have any idea how to say it all? She twisted the hem of her dress now, her cheeks warming as she glanced up into Cicero's handsome face. "I don't want there to be anything left unsaid. I think I've…made a point to tell everyone in my life how much they mean to me…" Her breath escaped her on a tiny sigh, her eyes locking on his. She whispered, "Except you. I never know how to muddle through things to say it, but –"

Cicero cut her off, leaning in to brush his lips against hers. He pulled back, only for a moment, before his glance dipped to her lips, and he leaned in again, this kiss longer, lingering, giving her time to sigh softly and relax into it, her body starting to warm. Then it was over, leaving nothing but the phantom warmth of his lips against hers. "I know you could never have waited for me, Eirwen. And I know even if you come home, you won't be able to look at anything the same way."

He leaned in, as her heart broke, and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips.

"I think that's what you've been struggling to tell me," he said sadly. He reached up, brushing his thumb across her cheek, and sighed. "I… I have to go – I'm part of the escort." The escort of Peacekeepers to guide them to the train-station – and stop them, if the tributes decided to be smart and try to escape. It had happened – not in their District. Those tributes never lasted long in the arena.

Better to go through with it all, hedge one's bets, and grit your teeth through the worst of it.

And as Cicero disappeared, his white uniform leaving the little room looking very dreary indeed, Eirwen knew, despite everything she had witnessed, all the harrowing births, the rescue-efforts after the mudslide, bear attacks, floggings… That was going to be nothing to what she experienced in the arena.

Nobody but the Gamemakers knew what they were up against this year. There were always bets on what the arena would look like, what special rigs had been set up by Gamemakers to trap tributes, what specific muttations had been designed especially to introduce fresh terror amongst the starving, near-catatonic tributes.

No Griet. She didn't appear, and Eirwen didn't dare ask anybody to go and procure her. The Capitol knew – had known for decades – that Griet's mind was going; she was a harmless old girl who delivered babies. She was no Finnick Odair; so they let her be, tucked safely in the snowbanks of 9. They didn't bother to try and drag her to the Capitol to mentor new tributes: perhaps they knew she would just wander off, become confused, start spouting obscure poetry and astrology, get caught stealing cakes from the Capitol bakeries, or worse, from the jewellers – Griet loved pretty, sparkling things. She was a magpie that way, and Eirwen had to frequently search the armoire drawer for trinkets Griet had unknowingly pilfered from the women she tended to – each was given back with an apology, but their neighbours knew Griet well enough not to bear a grudge at the thefts…

Who would look after Griet now?

Something was obstructing the blood to her heart. Was she having a heart-attack? A small seizure? All she could think was, something about her was not quite working correctly. A stroke? She felt her cheeks. No, both sides were still symmetrical, perfectly defined.

She realised what it was: grief.

It had gripped her insides, stopping her heart, making it impossible to fill her lungs.

She wouldn't get to say goodbye to Griet. The woman who, not only had raised her, but given her the gift of _life_, when Eirwen's parents had thrown it away… Who had taught her everything about midwifery – everything about the kind of woman Eirwen wanted to be as she matured.

Eirwen had just thrown Griet's gift – of _life_ – back in her face. She had volunteered for the Hunger Games – something nobody in 9 ever did, because it was tantamount to certain-death.

_But then, isn't going out into a whiteout to help a woman in labour? Throwing yourself into the rescue-efforts after the mudslide?_ Living in 9 sometimes meant certain-death. Too many mudslides, too many unpredictable avalanches brought on by unsuspected earthquakes – she was too young to remember the last one, but it had devastated the population – too many wolf-packs and bears coming in from the wild when food was scarce, attacking citizens. Not to mention, just being caught out in a particularly bad storm could mean death.

If there was one thing the people of 9 knew, though, it was how to survive: and Cicero was right. Dagonet had taught her. Not just to hunt. To survive. To find shelter even in a whiteout. They had faced down a wolf-pack before, too – his calm, terrifying demeanour had called to mind how he must have faced down muttations during his own Games, and Eirwen knew he must have faced some; Dagonet was covered in scars, some he had told Eirwen he'd refused to let the Capitol smooth away. Because the Capitol could do that.

Here, when babies were born prematurely, or with _spina bifida_, or, as had happened with one of Griet's deliveries last year, the oesophagus and trachea hadn't developed properly, they died. In the Capitol, people had surgeries on a daily basis, not for health benefits – they altered their appearances to obscure and sometimes grotesque measures in the pursuit of beauty. There were surgeries to remain trim, some to make one appear younger, to erase the lines and appearance of aging. They could fill out one's inferior chest, or bottom, puff out your lips and make eyes appear wider. Eirwen didn't understand it. The disgust and disdain she felt toward the Capitol, pursuing these self-indulgent surgeries, when a skilled surgeon in 9 could mean the difference between life and death for innocent babies…

She could understand Griet's complete and utter disdain for the Capitol: Eirwen shared it.

Griet. She couldn't say goodbye.

Perhaps it was best. Tucked up in the hayloft, she and Cicero talked about the Capitol, the ridiculous fashions, the Games, the terror of President Snow – Avoxes. And Cicero had told her about whispers he had picked up from his parents, whispers about Finnick Odair; the jewels and gifts Cashmere from 1 received from admirers; the deaths of the family and friends of last year's Victor, Johanna Mason…

Cicero's words resonated through her mind, "_Let all Panem think you're just a beautiful little orphan girl_."

An orphan. No identity. No _family. _Nobody who cared about her.

Nobody who could be used _against_ her.

_Clever Cicero_, she thought, her chest aching.

No, she couldn't say goodbye to Griet. To say goodbye to her would be to admit there was familiarity between them – that Griet, a Victor, had raised her in secret from the Capitol. Then the Capitol would have leverage over the elusive Victor from 9, Griet – leverage that was this moment getting ready to depart for the Capitol, for her own Arena. What would the Gamemakers do to Eirwen in the arena, if President Snow realised Griet had had someone she held dearly all these years?

Hardly mattered – Griet didn't watch the Games. And most of the time, she didn't have the presence of mind to realise what was going on in the present – she spent so much of her time thinking her way out of the past.

Just like Dagonet.

As Dorabella Blithe, with her three-inch decorated fingernails and her alarming metallic orange lipstick, ushered her out of the room with fluttering hands and a bright-eyed smile, there he stood. Dagonet – the scarred giant with a shorn head and eternally sombre expression.

Unlike Cashmere from 1, and Finnick Odair, no-one in the Capitol would desire Dagonet. They never looked past the surface to the incredible soul housed safely inside that scarred body. And if one were to pit Dagonet inside the arena again, his sheer size and terrifying, warrior-like appearance would send all other tributes scrabbling to get away.

With Dagonet's enormous, scarred paws resting on his little shoulders, Wulf looked…tiny.

His cheeks were pale, wan, his big brown eyes had lost their usual impish gleam.

Remembering what he had whispered to her on the stage, Eirwen's stomach dipped; as soon as he heard their footsteps – Dorabella was teetering on a pair of fluffy shoes that lacked a heel, despite a three-inch platform, and a sharp slope cradling her soles, literally had to tiptoe around – Wulf's face peered owlishly around Dagonet's hulking form, and, breaking her heart even more, Wulf's features blossomed into a grin so sparkling and instant, she jumped. And a shiver ran through her, sending her icy to the marrow.

In less than a month, they might both be dead.

She couldn't _abide_ that reality.

If it couldn't be her – she'd exercise all her not inconsiderable talents toward making sure it was him.

* * *

**A.N.**: It's a bit here-and-there-and-everywhere, but I'd think your thoughts would be disjointed if you were thrust into that situation! Before Gale comes along, this story is very much about brutality and lust. Oh, and Cicero is important: not as a romantic rival for Gale, though...


	3. The Preposterous Assumptions of Humanity

**A.N.**: Please review! Let me know if you like where I'm going with this. If not, don't! Ha!

* * *

**The Snow Queen**

_03_

"_Of all the preposterous assumptions of humanity, nothing exceeds the criticisms made of the habits of the poor by the well-housed, well-warmed, and well-fed._"

* * *

"Well, honestly, it's no wonder the Districts are in such a state, your mothers must be _entirely_ slovenly if they care to let you leave the house looking in such a way," Dorabella snipped, trotting along in her tiptoe shoes as they exited the _car_ that had driven them to the train-station. Dagonet had seemed twice his usual giant size in the polished, enclosed vehicle; beside him, Wulf had appeared far too small, far too young.

Wulf, who had latched onto Eirwen's hand the moment they had climbed as elegantly as they could out of the car, turned on Dorabella, his glower so complete, so lethal, that Dorabella, nearly twice his height in her obscure shoes, blanched beneath her atrocious buttercup-yellow blush. "_What_ did you say about my mother?"

"It was just an observation, pet," Dorabella tittered uncertainly, because in that moment, little Wulf looked as ferocious as Eirwen knew he was. Though he was tiny, as Shakespeare had said, thousands of years ago, he was fierce. "Don't you worry, we'll have you cleaned up and presentable by the time we get to the Capitol. First thing's first, you're to wash up before tea. First impressions are _excessively_ important, you know."

"Well, the impression I'm getting of _you_ for insulting my mother is that you're a tumour on a rat's arse!" Wulf snapped. It was the first cross thing Eirwen had ever heard him – or any of the Rutherford siblings – say. But well-deserved – Mrs Rutherford had given life to twenty-five children, and though they may not be well-fed, they were all tucked into the tightly-woven fabric of their family, clean, healthy, safe, _loved_, and in all the time Eirwen had spent at the Rutherford home, doing check-ups with the toddlers, conducting examinations of Mrs Rutherford herself, tending to the newborns, Eirwen had never witnessed any discord amongst the siblings, no spitefulness or turmoil. Mr and Mrs Rutherford had raised a marvellous brood – and Eirwen chatted sometimes with the older girls, about how many more babies Mrs Rutherford would bear before she went through the change. They guessed a handful more – Wulf was the first, amazingly, to have had his name drawn from the reaping ball.

Eirwen swept past a blustering Dorabella, up the steps to the train platform. Her expression of utter disdain at Dorabella was being televised for all of Panem to see: There were reporters everywhere, ensconced in beetle-like shells for their camera-equipment. Wulf's hand squeezed hers tightly, wincing slightly as he glanced up at her. His curling red hair blazed like the garnets on Dorabella's choker as the sun beat down. Eirwen could say honestly that none of the Rutherford boys ever left the house without at least combing their hair, though they were the wildest bunch she had ever met.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have said that," Wulf said guiltily, seeing Dorabella pluck a lavender-coloured lace handkerchief from the concealed pocket of her structured, corseted silk dress.

"She oughtn't to have spoken without thinking," Eirwen murmured.

"I think they all do – in the Capitol," Wulf frowned thoughtfully. "They seem rather clueless."

"Mm," Eirwen agreed with a tiny hum, her lips twitching. _Panem et__ circenses_. Something both Griet and Cicero said often. To give up one's political freedoms when given entertainments and the insurance of a full belly. The ridiculousness of Capitol fashions only served to uphold that political ideology – distracting from the dictatorship that was President Snow's Capitol.

The only people they had ever had access to from the Capitol were the Hunger Games chaperones, and guests on Caesar Flickerman's television-show: all of them were extravagant, obscure and silly.

Dorabella, her feelings wounded by Wulf's remark, sniffed and let Dagonet take over: he had them stand on the platform, backs to the pristine train that waited to take them to the Capitol. It was sleek, silver, _alien_. Nothing that sterile, flawless or opulent was ever seen in 9 except on Reaping Day. The cameras were there, taking photographs and filming for segments on Caesar Flickerman's shows, and Eirwen stood, straight-backed, bored and disdainful of the entire day. With the sun warming them, her salmon supper earlier, the emotional strain put on her the last two hours, it was enough to make her cover a stifled yawn with the back of her hand. The day had tired her out – emotional exhaustion always weighed on her so much more heavily than physical trauma. As a midwife, she had learned to become detached, except for the one brief flicker of humanity she allowed her patients to see, because it garnered _trust_. And that trust saved lives.

But these were the Hunger Games. She couldn't afford to have the other tributes' trust. Because her betrayal of it would haunt her forever.

_ Only one comes out_, she thought again, becoming bored and annoyed with the cameras. Hopefully they had captured her stifled yawn, her disdain of Dorabella, her boredom, the little hand clutched tightly in hers; Wulf refused to let go. And she was glad.

She had already decided – if it couldn't be her, she would be making sure Wulf made it home. And she wouldn't be letting Wulf out of her sight until her last dying breath – or, and her stomach squirmed the way it had the first time she had attended a gruesome death, _his_.

While she couldn't appear to be less bothered by the ruckus, Wulf seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. The Rutherford children were all good-natured, friendly, and quick to laugh; but Wulf especially had always been an imp, and, well…a _flirt_. And he was grinning and waving at the cameras like he knew he'd have all the girls wanting to chase after him. Usually, he did. He'd cut up his jaw once, tripping over in the schoolyard while playing kiss-chase.

He was like several of his elder-brothers that way, always near a pretty face. He was a flirt, but an honest one. Of all the children Eirwen knew, Wulf…he was special. Something about him buoyed everyone he came into contact with; they left his company a greater version of themselves, even if it was only for a little while.

She gazed down at him, as his white grin flashed, eyes sparkling, waving in the sunlight for the cameras. The little boy who had huffed and stomped onto the stage, clasping his thin arms around her waist and muttered, "Wish you hadn't done that" was gone; in his place was the Wulf she knew, the great-hearted boy who walked her into town from his home (surrounded by a gaggle of his younger siblings, all giggling and tugging on the hem of her dress) when she came to check on his mother, who took a mouthful of supper before letting the others hog the vat of stew, the squirrel-like acrobat who would pluck a handful of wild strawberries for Eirwen to give to Griet, and never left the worn floor during the spring dances.

This was a little boy people could try with all their might _not_ to love.

If she appeared heartless and disdainful, Wulf would only shine brighter as the fellow tribute from 9, smiling, making love to the cameras, flirting.

She knew that whatever plans she made during training, whatever she worked out with Dagonet, their mentor, or even with Wulf himself, depended entirely on the circumstances on the arena. And while Caesar Flickerman adored encouraging the bets on what each arena would look like or contain for their amusement, he had no idea what the arena would present itself as until the tributes stood on the mined podiums. Eirwen wondered, briefly, as little Miss Snow's face flickered on the screen, the Capitol reverting to her reaction to different Reaping ceremonies throughout the day, whether President Snow himself knew the specifics of each arena.

No, she thought: the year most of the tributes had frozen to death had been so 'uninspiring' for the Capitol, the Head Gamemaker had been swiftly replaced before the presentation of the Victor. Surely the President would have vetoed such a dull Games before they were even broadcast to the nation? But she was sure, having been "sitting with Seneca", President Snow would have a hand in these Games, to make sure they were spectacular. For his granddaughter's birthday.

When Dagonet finally ushered them onto the train, Eirwen experienced a brief moment's relief – before astonishment set in.

Beside her, Wulf whispered in wonder, "I'll be goddamned."

She had never seen anything like it. At first, all she could see were colours – silvery lilac, raspberry-pink, the delicate shimmer of wheat-gold, light fragmented through glass like miniature rainbows splashing against rippling velvet – she had seen a fur coat Griet wore in winter, lined with it – something like silver but with a pinkish tint glowed, and a deep, polished glow came from the golden wood panelling the walls. Then came details – the fine curve of the dainty, hand-carved furniture upholstered with lavender silk; the exquisite inlaid details of mother-of-pearl and ebony on the occasional tables; the cut-crystal set at the dining-table and on a little wheeled trolley beside queer, beautiful bottles full of liquors, amber, sapphire, emerald-green in colour. The plushness of the seats, the heavy folds of fabric forming columns at either end of the so-clear-they-were-invisible windows, the delicate chinking noise of the crystal chandeliers.

And then, the food. Everywhere, there were dainty, gilded plates – hand-painted with beautiful flowers, shining with gold and silver – meticulously arranged with delicate treats Griet called 'fancies'. Sometimes, when she was in a benevolent mood about the Capitol, she would hold Eirwen entranced with tales of Capitol food – she had even painted pictures of her favourite cakes, spent a decade or so trying to replicate them. So from Griet, Eirwen knew that these were the daintiest petit-fours the Capitol had to offer – _macarons_; "Religieuse" puffs; decadent and dainty _St Honore _pastry nests decorated with foamy cream, caramel-dipped pastry puffs, colourful icings, tiny edible pearls, berries, nuts; and vibrant fruits so fresh they could have just been plucked. There were dainty almond-shaped cookies exquisitely piped with icing; tiered _financiers_; rose-shaped biscuits scented with lemon; tiny cupcakes that smelled of liquorice; _petit-fours_ decorated with icing shaped like flowers; the daintiest little tarts; _éclairs_. There dishes on ice containing berries, chunks of melon, pineapple, , arrangements of fruits Eirwen had never even seen, but there was, on a little table set between four comfortable chairs, something that drew her eyes.

Every year, Dagonet returned from the Capitol after the Games. He brought a pretty but serviceable dress for Eirwen, ribbons for the Rutherford girls, fabrics for their mother, and for Griet…a quantity of _chocolates_.

In her great house in the Victors' Village, Griet owned a small box made of polished maple wood. It was reddish-golden in colour, with three drawers that had tiny gold knobs. Each tiny drawer was lined with raw silk the pale blue of a winter dawn, and the top and the fronts of the drawers were inlaid with polished woods and mother-of-pearl, in a design of a posy of flowers. Every year, Griet would smuggle her chocolates from Dagonet into that little box; and once a week, until every chocolate was gone, she would sit Eirwen down, take a knife, cut the chocolate in half, and they would savour the rich, savoury-sweetness.

These were particularly fine chocolates, rolled in colourful sugars; topped with swirls of rich ganache; colourful edible transfers in different patterns; crumbles of honeycomb; gold-leaf; cocoa nibs; whole candied nuts; colourful sprinkles; even sugared flowers; some pyramid-shaped; some that looked like flowers, so exquisitely lifelike in painted white-chocolate; all presented in shiny coloured cases. Dagonet always brought Griet a selection, always accompanied by a glossy paper leaflet with pictures, and words explaining the flavour combinations. She wondered what these tasted like.

And she knew if Griet were here, she'd absolutely _insist_ they try every single one. The thought made Eirwen's lips twitch, a smile threatening, before she remembered where she was…and that she hadn't said goodbye.

Perhaps Dagonet could buy Griet an extra-special box of chocolates to console her. She was sure one of Wulf's sisters wouldn't mind in the slightest taking over Eirwen's duties caring for the eccentric old doll, halving a chocolate every week.

A tea-set the like of which Eirwen had never seen, not even in Griet's glass-fronted cabinet in her drawing-room, sat in pride of place by the tiered stand of chocolates, the polished kettle ensconced on a spindly apparatus beneath which a flame could heat the water, just waiting for them to sit and take afternoon-tea. Eirwen knew about afternoon-tea because of Griet: apparently, it was the height of sophistication in the Capitol, to pause halfway between luncheon and supper, and fill one's stomach with dainty finger-sandwiches, scones, and the most delicate little treats one's pastry-chef could create.

There were _patisseries_ and _chocolatiers_ in the Capitol, Griet had told her, where such delicacies were served daily, at three o'clock, to hundreds of Capitol citizens.

They had little screens at each small table, set with snowy white linen cloths and polished silverware, where patrons could take afternoon-tea as they watched the Hunger Games.

There were even places one could have one's hair or nails beautified, while one sipped expensive teas, snacked on tiny morsels full of empty sugars, and watched the Games from the comfort of cushioned velvet massage-chairs while one's toes soaked in warm almond-oil decorated with rose-petals and crushed pearls. So Griet said. Eirwen couldn't help wondering if, in her younger days, when the horror of her own Games had been fresh and the Capitol a glittering, magnificent place, whether Griet hadn't buried her grief in the Capitol's luxuries.

To her, the luxuries of the Capitol were as far away and dreamlike as Griet's Greek gods and Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty, other fairy-tales.

Wulf's grip on her hand had become lax. She pressed her lips gently together, and glanced down at him. His eyes were as round as the saucers of the tea-set.

"_All of this_ is for us?" he breathed. Eirwen knew he had never seen so much food in one place – his mother had the habit, as most families in 9 did, of cooking in one large pot, setting it into the centre of the table, and each member of the family tucking in with a spoon. Eirwen had eaten with the Rutherfords often enough – they were _generous_. But still – chocolates, _St Honore_ pastries, cookies, even _cake_ was obscure to most households in 9. They did better than most districts, on account of illegal hunting and foraging – the Peacekeepers turning a blind eye, because they too would starve if the residents didn't brave the snow to bring back elk and whale-meat, the Capitol's access to 9 cut off after the first severe snow, but still…

Eirwen gave a tiny noise at the bottom of her throat. One of Griet's stories was called to mind: Griet had spent a lot of time in the Capitol, _reading_ in something they called a 'library'. She had read ancient books, fairy-tales, stories, tales of gallantry, love… She had told Eirwen of the Greeks – the first peoples to ever found a _democracy_. And those who worshipped gods of love, war, the underworld, lightning, childbirth, flowers… The hero Odysseus had once stumbled across an island where a feast was set out; his men had eaten and eaten until they were turned, by magic, into swine. And the swine had been butchered, served back to their old comrades, before Odysseus had realised the trickery of a beautiful sorceress named Circe.

Yes, Odysseus had ended up _enduring_ Circe in his bed for years before he'd made his escape to get back to his faithful wife, but still…

Eirwen had always loved Griet's stories of the Greeks. Their obscure names, the romanticism, the naughtiness of the gods – the stories of Zeus' many conquests making her smirk – a woman taking a _swan_ to her bed? Or Zeus turning himself into a cloud, or a bull, so that he could have a nymph without his wife detecting them? There was even a Greek goddess of snow, Khione. And Persephone named and painted all the flowers of the world…she wondered briefly if there were any pomegranates amongst the exotic fruits arranged on the dining-table. Eirwen didn't know what a pomegranate looked like, but she imagined if the god of the Underworld could ensnare a beautiful woman for eternity with only one pomegranate, they must be good.

Still, the thought of the food, of Circe and her pigs, of Wulf's wide eyes, the lilac train-carriage, the inlaid tables, reminded Eirwen exactly where they were, and _why_. They weren't Odysseus' companions, gorging themselves before becoming the meal. They were the lambs being fed and trussed up before being served up to certain slaughter.

"The Capitol likes to make an impression," she said quietly – Wulf's hand had left hers; he was now skirting around the room, his wide eyes taking in everything, not even daring to touch, barely breathing. Did he feel, as she did, that everything was too pristine, too beautiful and too perfect to touch? He made humming noises of interest, delight, flashed grins at her and commented things like, "It smells like honey", or "Come and feel how _soft_…!" and when the train started to move, he stood bolt-upright, eyes wide with alarm as he stared out the window. The speed of the train unsettled her, too. If she'd eaten any of the rich foods offered, she was sure the jolt of her stomach might have made her disgrace herself all over the richly-woven carpet.

For a few moments, they were left alone, just her and Wulf. After they recovered from the jarring speed of the train, it was Wulf who brought Eirwen into the present, rather than let her bring on a premature stroke dreading the immediate future. He bounded over to what Griet would call a love-seat, upholstered in raw silk, squashy and cosy, with velvet cushions embroidered with scrolling patterns in shimmering threads; he patted the cushion next to him. "Come and sit with me."

Eirwen did so, glancing around the carriage. She wondered where Dag and Dorabella had disappeared to. So, apparently, did Wulf. "D'you think I upset her that much?"

"I don't think so," Eirwen said softly. "I'm sure she's heard worse before." She meant to add, _From other tributes_, but couldn't bring herself to. _Only one comes out_… She supposed Dagonet and Dorabella had left them so they could have a quiet talk with each other, now that the Capitol cameras and reporters were gone. Now was the time to put together a strategy: she had heard this was usual for Mentors, to help the tributes come up with a plan, before they went into the arena – and to help the tributes once inside, by procuring and securing sponsors, and dictating the delivery of gifts.

"Eirwen…" Wulf said softly; he was frowning intently at a little silver dish of exquisite chocolates. He had taken her hand again; its size and warmth was surprisingly comforting and natural within hers.

"Yes?" She glanced over at him. He looked very small, sitting so close beside her, his feet barely touching the ground. But she had known Wulf all his life. He could climb trees like a squirrel; could coax a spark out of two wet leaves for a fire; could ice-fish and hunt hares and deer; and, most importantly now, knew how to throw a hatchet at fifty metres and hit his mark. Every single time. His brothers roughhoused with throwing-knives and axes, and it was Eirwen who was called in to stitch up the wounds. Some of them had been very deep, too.

Wulf sighed heavily, turning to her. He looked so young. She could imagine he would grow up handsome – all his elder-brothers were, tall and built like bears, with deep red hair. He had the dark eyes of his mother, and a dusting of tawny freckles. He was _smiling_ at her. Not the impish grin she knew from practical-jokes she had witnessed (or been victim of) at the Rutherford home; nor a grin he had given the cameras; this was a true smile, emanating from deep within his soul. "I've decided…to _enjoy_ myself."

Eirwen blinked. Utterly perplexed, she wasn't given time to reply, even if she could think of something to say: Dagonet had appeared. They both glanced over at the hulking giant, made even more massive by the enclosed carriage, and decidedly out of place beside the cut-crystal, the shimmering silks and luxurious velvet, the exquisitely-crafted pastries and sweets. Older, tired and scarred, the weight of the world had always seemed to rest on Dagonet's enormous shoulders: Eirwen realised now that he had done _this_ with sixty children in the last thirty years he'd been a Mentor.

Not one had returned to 9.

But nobody could say Dagonet had abused or neglected his tributes. And she knew better than anyone that Dagonet _cared_. Probably cared too much. She knew that in his humble, isolated cabin, where he bred his giant malamute dogs, there was a stretch of wall above his hand-carved bed, where the names of each tribute from 9 were etched into the wood. Including the name of the girl he had first made the journey to the Capitol with.

She had learned to read by those names, never once realising what pain it caused him to hear her coo them as she proudly deciphered the symbols, kneeling on the bolster, her little fingertip feeling the raw markings scratched into the logs.

As a child, she could remember being wrapped up in a quilt, snuggled deep in Dagonet's arms, tucked against his broad chest, sucking her thumb as the Victory Tours played on the television in midwinter; she couldn't remember the details of the shows, but she would never forget Dagonet's sturdy warmth, the beat of his strong heart, falling asleep in his arms, in safety.

Griet, Eirwen and Dagonet were the closest thing each of them had to a family.

And she realised; while she had been anxious and grief-stricken over Griet…here was _Dagonet_. Besides Griet, Dagonet was the person Eirwen loved most dearly in the world. He was…

He was the only father she had ever known. She admired Cicero, loved him; but Dagonet was the best man she had ever known. Throughout her lifetime, she realised he had always done his utmost to make sure she was safe. Or at least…able to protect herself when she was put – or, as was most often,_ put herself_ – in harm's way.

But if he was angry with her for taking Astrid's place, or if grief was already slowly starting to cripple him, Dagonet didn't show it. He just moved, slow and lethal as the predators he had taught her to hunt, until he had settled himself in a padded armchair opposite them. A huge finger touching his scarred lip, he sat, silently watching them. Eirwen was used to this: Dagonet wasn't one for small-talk, and neither was she. Griet said they were both regretfully introverted. Eirwen didn't see any harm in being quiet; when she was passionate about something, she would speak up. But not on a Capitol train, where Capitol staff were here to wait on her and Wulf hand and foot, where they were surely being recorded by invisible cameras. The long arm of President Snow could reach anyone, anywhere.

From here on out, Eirwen knew she had to be on her best behaviour. Cicero was right: she had to be the little orphan girl, the one who had nothing to lose, nobody she loved or who loved her. If she remained aloof and disdainful of the Games – it wouldn't be so very difficult to maintain the charade, after all… What she had to ensure was that only _she _could ever be hurt by the Capitol.

Glancing over at Dagonet, she bit her lip and tucked herself deeper in the loveseat. Dagonet…

"Eyes on the forest?" he asked quietly, and Eirwen glanced up. Cicero wasn't the only one she had long talks about the Capitol with. While the hayloft was their own, the wild was her and Dagonet's domain, their safe place in an unsafe world. Where the howling wind and snow swallowed the sound of voices, blinded people, bested technology…it was a safe place to those who knew its secrets. Those of 9 did. She had been teaching Cicero to remember them. But the Capitol?

In 9, to survive the winter the community had to pool and stockpile its resources, preserving things in the summer months to keep. Though many were loath to set aside food for the vague future, in 9 they called it keeping their eyes on the forest. Not the trees. To keep one's eyes only on the trees was to miss the bigger-picture; in their case, ultimate survival, not temporary fulfilment.

Ultimate survival. _Only one comes out_…

If she were to look at the Hunger Games as the trees, then ultimate survival, making sure the Games ended after she left the arena, was the forest. Because Cicero was intuitive, and what he believed in his gut about Finnick Odair, and the accidental deaths of Johanna Mason's family, the jewels gifted to Cashmere from 1…

To win both the Games and her freedom, Eirwen had to make herself desirable. But untouchable.

How did she keep everyone safe?

"I'm trying to see through the mess of limbs," she answered softly.

"It requires many different perspectives, doesn't it?" he said quietly. Eirwen glanced at him, taking in the scarred lip, the puckered pink scar that had almost blinded him, slashing down over his left eye, from brow to cheekbone. The various nicks and marks from stitches, the portion of cartilage missing from his right ear, his shorn head, the hulking size shrouded beneath a fine shirt, the scarred hands. Dagonet must have won his Games through sheer brutality and the tremendous power he had to intimidate anyone; Eirwen knew there wasn't a greater heart in all of Panem.

He had remained alone, no wife or children – despite there being plenty of women in 9 who would have had him, and not just for his money. Dagonet was the first to offer aid to anyone in need; he kept to himself, yet he was generous to all, without any discernable favourites. Everyone seemed to know him, be his friend, but nobody…nobody _knew_ him. At least, not in the way Griet did, and through her, Eirwen.

Eirwen had thought it many times before, and the idea trickled through her mind again as she looked at Dagonet. They were the closest thing the other had to family.

Dagonet had won his Games and come home. The Capitol…hadn't had anyone to hold over him. If Cicero had amassed theories, then Dagonet had whispered confirmations to Eirwen: he had once muttered that those Victors who were seen as desirable were often…made _available_ for the Capitol's pleasure.

The thought made her stomach turn. Something vitriolic, hateful and caustic threatened to eat away at her insides at the idea.

She knew she couldn't marry Cicero. But would she have married another man? Born him children? Dressed them in their finest to watch them in each annual Reaping?

No. She helped bring baby after baby into the world, adored their delicate warmth, the immaculate beauty of newborn babies, the smiles and glittering eyes of the growing ones, enjoyed when she saw a baby toddle over to her for the first time, had helped put hair up in a pretty braided crown for their first day of school, kissed grazed knees and helped smooth ruffled feathers in the schoolyard… But the idea of carrying a child? To feel another growing within her, a part of her, to go through the exquisite agony of childbirth…to cradle them in her arms… The thought terrified her.

No, she helped deliver babies. Love them as she did, yearn for a _family_ as she always had done, the idea of bearing children filled her with dread.

It was the only time in her life Eirwen ever felt any sort of connection with the mother she had never known, the mother who had left her in the snow to freeze to death. Perhaps because the thought of seeing Eirwen in the Hunger Games had broken her heart.

"Haven't you two washed up yet?" Dorabella had reappeared. Her hair was freshly powdered, and suddenly the compartment seemed too small for the cloying scent of overly sweet floral perfume that wafted from her as she teetered around the carriage. Eirwen wondered how she could remain upright, in those ridiculous shoes, with the speed of the train – but despite the fact they were going easily 250 miles per hour, Eirwen admitted, she couldn't feel a thing.

"Tea, first," Dagonet said quietly, his deep voice rumbling, out of place in the pristine carriage. Dorabella glanced at him, her turquoise eyelashes fluttering.

"Excellent idea," she said, and perched daintily at the edge of a chair, her ankles tucked neatly together, rather than crossing her knees. She deemed that posture 'oafish'. "I am quite famished from the day's excitement. And this gives us an opportunity to discuss some of the details of our trip." A Capitol server appeared, preparing the fragrant tea in an elaborate ceremony that had Eirwen enthralled, learning about the age of the teapot and how the patina, the shine, was increased by the daily ceremony; they were given cloth napkins draped across their laps, and a delicate little plate to place their chosen treats on. Dorabella didn't waste any time in preparing them for "the delights of the Capitol", and took the opportunity during afternoon-tea to give Eirwen and Wulf their first lesson in etiquette.

She declared Eirwen's district manners "quite pretty", and Wulf seemed keen to show contrition toward Dorabella for insulting her earlier, and sat up straight, took small bites, ate with his mouth closed and wiped his fingers neatly on the cloth napkin rather than his trouser legs as she told him, even learning how to raise one's little-finger just-so while spooning a little strawberry jam onto one's dinky little scone.

"_Now_," Dorabella said, bringing out a small, iridescent metallic emerald clipboard, to which were attached numerous papers, schedules and, from what Eirwen glimpsed, photographs of Eirwen and Wulf themselves, a sketch of a gown and the word 'ice' in flourishing handwriting. She clicked the top of a sleek silver pen and sighed daintily, setting her shoulders back, and gave them a smile. "This year, in celebration of his granddaughter's birthday, President Snow has organised some wonderful festivities – and since you two are the two lucky tributes from 9, _you_ are both invited!"

Eirwen glanced at Wulf. Were they supposed to be impressed? Giddy?

"What does that…mean, precisely?" Eirwen asked. Everyone in Panem, unless they had been struck dumb, knew the system of the Games. There were the Reapings, the televised recap in the afternoon after 12 had named their tributes, and the next time anyone saw the tributes, they were unrecognisable in horse-drawn carriages, being guided through the Capitol to the City Circle in the Opening Ceremony of the Games. Then, the three days' training, always kept highly secret, until the Gamemakers announced a score out of twelve for each tribute. The day before the Games began, Caesar Flickerman hosted his most popular annual broadcast, interviewing the year's tributes.

Anyone who wanted a shot at survival in the arena made themselves unforgettable for the crowd during that interview. All of Panem would be watching, and within the Capitol, the sponsors would be hedging their bets, picking favourites, panting to get to the mentors of tributes they wanted to win, for bragging rights at having chosen the victor.

"Oh, _darling_!" Dorabella beamed. She rolled her Rs like Hs. The letter T was always given an unusual accent, and there was always a hiss on the letter _S_. Did all Capitol people talk like this, ending every sentence on a higher octave as if asking a question? "I am just _so_ thrilled about this, it is all very exciting! Usually when we arrive in the Capitol, tributes – meaning you – would be taken to the Remake Centre where the prep-teams make you presentable, and you meet your stylists. But _this_ year, on account of Aspasia Snow's birthday, President Snow has arranged some very special entertainments. First and foremost is the garden-party at President Snow's mansion, where Miss Snow and her friends will be having a private-viewing with all of the tributes. Which is why we must get your manners up to scratch, as it involves a full afternoon-tea. The Capitol's best pastry-chefs have been up to their elbows in choux for weeks!"

"A private…viewing." Even Eirwen realised how cold her voice had sounded. A private viewing. _As if we're cattle at auction in the market_, she thought sadly. There was a reason the Districts called the Launch Rooms beneath each arena the 'Stockyard'. It was the place livestock went before the slaughter; and that was definitely where she and Wulf were headed. But a private viewing, organised by President Snow for his granddaughter's birthday… It was too obscure, too vile.

"Yes, Miss Snow wants to meet all of you personally," Dorabella beamed, "before she chooses her favourites." Eirwen blinked.

"Her favourites?" Wulf raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, yes!" Dorabella smiled. "She's going to personally sponsor an especial tribute this year."

"So whoever Aspasia chooses as favourite will be victor," Eirwen said coolly, as Wulf frowned. Dorabella's eyelashes fluttered.

"Whyever would you say that, dear?"

"If you were a Gamemaker, would you annoy President Snow by killing off his granddaughter's favourite in the arena?" Eirwen said, with a delicate sigh. _Wonderful_. Not only did they have to contend with Careers from Districts 1, 2 and 4 for the Capitol's attention and sponsorships, now they had to fawn and grovel for a ten-year-old's affection.

"Well, I'm sure President Snow has explained that the odds aren't always in one's favour," Dorabella said, giving Eirwen an expression that she might have believed leaned towards compassion, if not for the absurd powders Dorabella used to obscure her natural features. It was difficult to make out anything but a sparkling white smile.

"What else is there?" Dagonet asked Dorabella, who checked a note on her clipboard.

"After the garden-party, Aspasia will host a tour of the Capitol for her favourites – we'll work on your etiquette and carriage, just in case she happens to pick you," Dorabella said, glancing up from her clipboard as she waved a hand idly, as if already anticipating this effort would all be for naught. "Then, on the night before your training starts, we have Aspasia's birthday-ball. Everyone who's _anyone_ will be there. All of the tributes, their mentors, chaperones, stylists…" By the breathiness of her voice, the warm glow emanating from her eyes, Eirwen could tell Dorabella was already anticipating this birthday-ball. How many in the Capitol would be able to brag they'd been invited to the birthday gala of President Snow's granddaughter?

Eirwen wondered, fleetingly, how little Miss Snow's wedding would be celebrated. Caesar Flickerman and a host of Capitol designers had filled broadcast-time by creating a huge selection of garments and outfits for Miss Snow to wear to various events celebrating her birthday; the crowds in the Capitol could vote for their favourites, and apparently there was a lot of betting going on about the winning dresses.

Wulf glanced at Eirwen, frowning thoughtfully. "You could make her a dress for her doll."

Eirwen blinked. Dorabella tittered, confused, "A _dress_?"

"Caesar Flickerman did a special on what gifts President Snow had given his granddaughter over the years," Wulf said, his eyes lighting up. "When she was five, he gave her a doll's house – there were tiny glass bottles filled with real wine, and the flowers were _real_, genetically altered micro-miniature roses, and the dolls are made with porcelain faces and every year, fashion designers gift her a new collection of clothes for them." He subtly rolled his eyes at the extravagance, though Eirwen knew that dolls' house was a source of great envy amongst his sisters. With Eirwen, too, admittedly.

"_I _think, if you sewed a dress for one of her dolls, she'd remember you," Wulf said, gazing earnestly at Eirwen. "Mother says you have the tiniest applique stitches she's ever seen." And Mrs Rutherford would know Eirwen's applique – Eirwen had a habit of gifting Mrs Rutherford baby-clothes she had made herself. Sewing was a talent universal in 9, men and women learned from the time they could be trusted not to swallow the needle, and it gave both midwife and mother something to do in the wait for baby. Eirwen had filled many hours stitching quilts and making clothes out of nothing more than scraps.

Dorabella let out a little gasp. "Of course! I've already arranged to have the appropriate gifts, flowers and thank-you cards delivered on the day, but two tributes showing up with a gift they personally made, and remembering one of her hobbies, too – oh, that will surely set you two apart from the rest."

"Speaking of the rest," Dagonet said quietly, eyeing a carriage-clock over the mantelpiece by the dining-table. "The recap will be on."

"Oh, yes, we mustn't miss that!" Dorabella gasped. "It's our first glimpse of the competition, after all, and President Snow has made certain this year will be an exceptional crop of recruits."

Eirwen's head starting to ache with it all – the private viewing, the birthday-ball, the doll's dress, President Snow, the forthcoming Tribute Parade – she sipped her tea and nibbled on a tiny seeded cracker topped with miniature prawns and a creamy, tangy pinkish sauce, before following Dorabella's decorated wig down to a carriage Dorabella called the 'entertainment room', where so many gadgets glinted and shone, Eirwen wondered whether they actually had any use at all, or were just for show. The most ostentatious feature was the television, and as they sat down to watch the recap of the Reapings, a Capitol server appeared, moving the tea-service from the other carriage in, so they could continue to take afternoon-tea while they watched. Wulf climbed up beside Eirwen on a small, squashy sofa, his leg warm against her thigh through the flimsy material of her dress, and Dorabella perched daintily again, her clipboard on her knee, her expression turning suddenly shrewd as she started meticulously annotating her notes.

It began as they always did, the Recap. President Snow announcing the 72nd Games. This year, though, Caesar Flickerman introduced Aspasia Snow, trying to wheedle secrets out of her about the upcoming Games "Grandpa" had promised to make especially magnificent for her birthday. This was a segment from the show Panem had been forced to watch weeks ago: Caesar chuckled as he announced the afternoon-teas, garden-parties, balls to be held in Aspasia's honour; but now was a new clip, unseen footage of Caesar Flickerman sitting with both President Snow and the new Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.

This year, they announced, the Career districts, 1, 2 and 4, had been given the option of sending more tributes into the Games. Entirely voluntary. Thoroughly exciting.

This would increase the number of tributes, exponentially increase the amount of bloodshed, and lessen everyone's odds. This was "truly going to be one of the most thrilling Games in memory", Caesar Flickerman announced, his white grin flashing. And as Eirwen sat, her stomach having evaporated, in a dreamlike state of disconnect, everything weightless, making no mark on her, her lips parted in disbelief as Wulf's big brown eyes whipped to her, wide with alarm. Dagonet had made a sudden movement of shock, or anger, at Snow and Crane's announcement, but now, glancing over at him, his features were as sombre and unreadable as ever.

_Extra_ tributes.

"Has…" She cleared her throat, which had gone hoarse. _Only one comes out…_ "Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"During the 2nd Quarter Quell, the Gamemakers culled twice the number of tributes," Dagonet said, his voice so heavy, so thick with heartbrokenness, Eirwen winced. Twice the number of tributes. Four from 9. Forty-eight in total.

She cleared her throat, "Did they have two Victors?"

"No," Dagonet said quietly. "Just the one. Haymitch Abernathy." Everyone knew Haymitch. He was the only Victor from 12. None of his tributes ever lasted more than two days past the initial bloodbath, though a few were hale or wily enough to have made a go for it. _Forty-eight tributes_, she thought.

"How did he do it?" Dagonet glanced over at her, his expression inscrutable. Dorabella pointedly kept her eyes focused on the screen, though Eirwen could tell she was listening, just…something about asking how Haymitch Abernathy had won the 2nd Quarter Quell was…off. Something the Capitol didn't like talking about. Odd.

"He used the force-field they always set around the arenas against the last tribute, as a weapon," Dagonet said quietly. Eirwen blinked. Of course, they all knew the arenas were inescapable. And force-fields were those high-tech, expensive security-measures used primarily by the Capitol – she was sure 1 and 2 probably had cause to use them, and endorsement from the Capitol to do so – but… Abernathy had used the force-field, part of the arena itself, as a weapon?

"That's clever," she said softly. Dagonet looked too solemn to be impressed that a kid had thought of such a thing. It was…_sorrow_, she thought.

"I've never seen the 2nd Quarter Quell on television," Wulf said, frowning thoughtfully. Glancing at him, Eirwen realised he was right: she had never seen the 2nd Quarter Quell during the unceasing reruns of past Games. Those of Cashmere, from 1, and Brutus, from 2, Finnick Odair's Games eight years ago, were favourites.

"That would be why," Eirwen said softly, glancing at Dagonet. "The Capitol mustn't have liked him using the arena itself as a weapon – or figuring out that it _could_ be used as a weapon."

"It was unexpected," Dagonet said calmly.

"What was the 1st Quarter Quell like?"

Dagonet sighed heavily. The 1st Quarter Quell would have been years, fifteen, perhaps, before Dagonet's own Games. He would have grown up watching them on reruns, the way she had the Games of Finnick Odair, Cecelia's from 8, the ruthless Enobaria from 2 who liked to rip throats out with her bare teeth…

"The Capitol asked the Districts to nominate their tributes," was all Dagonet said. But it was the expressionlessness of his voice, his calm, detached expression, that made Eirwen shiver, as much as the implications of what he had said. The Capitol 'asking' the Districts to choose their tributes meant they had been forced to pick which children got to go to slaughter. She set down the dainty little finger-sandwich (crusts cut off) in her plate, and set it on the little table in front of them, her appetite gone.

"It's starting," Dorabella chirped. Despite herself, Eirwen's eyes instantly sought the television, unable to look away, wishing she could. Crane had set the maximum voluntary extra tributes at six extra per district.

Potentially, eighteen extra Careers.

* * *

**A.N.**: Well, I had to make it interesting! Some aspects of this Hunger Games will act as a mirror of Katniss' Games, but the outcomes will be very different: it gives the two girls something that they can be a bit abrasive to each other about, the way the other conducted themselves during their Games. Particularly Katniss, using Peeta.


	4. Win the Crowd

**A.N.**: So, we have the first glimpse of the tributes.

* * *

**The Snow Queen**

_04_

"_Win the Crowd and you will Win the Games_"

* * *

Given how massive the populations of 1, 2 and 4 were, Eirwen was certain there were numerous eighteen-year-olds who never got their shot at volunteering. She wondered what system the academies had in place to pick the tributes who volunteered each year.

After the first two were Reaped, District 1 offered up six extra tributes. The first girl, named Lavish, stuck out particularly in Eirwen's mind as the most stunning girl she had ever seen, with a voluptuous body and shimmering rose-gold hair billowing in waves around her slim shoulders.

"The Capitol will _adore_ her," Dorabella sighed dreamily; beside the tribute Lavish, Eirwen caught a glimpse of Cashmere, the female Victor from 1 Eirwen had grown up watching reruns of. Cashmere's brother, Gloss, had won when Eirwen was two; Cashmere had won the next year. Looking the way she did, with Cashmere as her mentor, Lavish would probably have to fend off sponsors, rather than scrabble to obtain them.

After three other girls stepped forward – a delicate blonde named Ermine, an ebony-skinned Amazon named Mallory with close-cropped hair, and an exotic, copper-skinned, green-eyed, well-built girl named Jewel – the first boy's name was pulled from the Reaping Ball.

As she watched the proceedings, Eirwen frowned. The Hunger Games were weapon of the Capitol. Everyone had to play by the rules, even as they were slaughtered. The parents in the Districts had to watch, helpless, as their children were taken away and murdered in cold blood. The children in the arena had to kill or be killed – the more brutal, the better; the Capitol loved a gruesome show. The Victors had to relive it, year after year, watching children they were supposed to mentor be led into the slaughter. They had to sit by and watch. Witness them plucked, painted and trussed up for the Capitol. Sit helpless while their young protégés whimpered to a bloody end.

The only constants in the Games were the chaperones, the favourite Victors, the stylists, Caesar Flickerman. The tributes were ever-changing. Quickly forgotten.

Glancing at Wulf as dread settled like lead in her stomach, watching the first male tribute from 1 – his name was Otto, a muscular boy with close-cropped hair and a quiet demeanour not unlike Dagonet, and easily six times Wulf's weight – take his place onstage by the cool, classically-beautiful Gloss, she swallowed the lump in her throat. Careers were always the biggest; and next to Dagonet, anyone looked tiny – but how would Wulf stand any chance against Careers like the stocky Jewel, or Otto, or the other voluntary tributes, amber-eyed Anton, and mahogany-skinned William with his incredible cheekbones and waist-length black hair in a ponytail?

"Did they screen the tributes for attractiveness first?" Eirwen asked quietly, watching Cashmere and Gloss make a brief statement as the District 1 chaperone applauded, giddy with anticipation at having such a crop of excruciatingly good-looking tributes to show off to Aspasia Snow. Dagonet made a quiet noise of amusement.

"I like Jewel," Wulf said, but his voice was incredibly sorrowful. His eyes already looked wounded; Eirwen hated that.

He had turned to her and declared, "_I have decided…to enjoy myself_." For such a tiny person, he had immense conviction. And if Wulf, who looked tinier and more vulnerable when the District 1 tributes had gathered together onstage, holding hands and milking it for the crowd and cameras, could declare he was going to enjoy his death-sentence, then Eirwen…

She didn't know, she just…hated the Games. Always had. She hated the Capitol, always had. She hated the senselessness of the Games, the Capitol for being so blind about the President. She hated the President for not being forward-thinking. She hated the willingness of such stunning children like Lavish, Jewel, Otto and William, to go boldly into the face of certain death, for no other reason than entertainment and the thinly-veiled threat of fame and riches. She hated that Dagonet had confirmed President Snow prostituted Cashmere and Finnick Odair. Hated that the Districts had to work like slaves to keep the Capitol in the lap of luxury; hated that the Capitol had no idea what the Districts suffered, that they had been trained by television and propaganda and the Games to be indifferent toward and amused by massacres, rather than realising it was wrong, that they should be asking questions. She hated that the Districts had to go along with the Treaty of the Treason. If indeed it _had_ been treason.

But if the Games were only the device created by the winning side to punish the Districts after the rebellion…how grievous had the Capitol's offences against the Districts been, to risk it at all?

And if Eirwen was going to die…did she have to play by their rules? By the rules of the Capitol, to make a show of it, by the rules of the Careers, to make it gruesome and sadistic?

Her body was now in the custody of the Capitol. Her soul was still her own. Her disdain of the Capitol was her weapon, a silent protest against the Games…being an orphan meant she had no vulnerabilities; but rather than shove the Capitol's face in it…she had to be clever. Far cleverer than she believed she was. To maintain her sense of self while she was in the arena, she had to play the Games…by no-one's rules but her own.

She would kill, of course. When it was warranted. To keep Wulf alive. That was her plan. But she wouldn't preen and simper for the Capitol. Wouldn't smile and tease with Caesar Flickerman. Disdainful and aloof. Untouchable. _Cold_. That was how she had to be.

All of this flickered through her mind as the last of the volunteers stepped up onstage; the boy named Lance, smug as anything, a hulking brute, reminded her so much of the Peacekeeper she had refused at fifteen, she detested him instantly. Wulf crinkled his nose at the screen, and Dagonet looked very surly; cruelty seemed to roll off this boy in waves – the other male tributes both gave him wary, annoyed looks as he waved to the crowd screaming their applause at his brave sacrifice.

District 2, the district known for masonry – and training the nation's Peacekeepers, Cicero had told her – offered up eight tributes, just as 1 had done. The names drawn from the Reaping Balls were Atalanta, a fearsome-looking girl Eirwen didn't think had ever smiled, her features were so harsh, like…like a stone sculpture. And Jolyon, whose smile, for some reason, made the fine hair on her arms rise. After Atalanta, three girls named Meta, Brenda and Selma volunteered. They were followed by three boys, Flint, Aldo and Gellert. Obscure enough names in themselves to remember, and Eirwen found herself wanting to remember them – she borrowed a scrap of notepaper from Dorabella, and a spare silver pen, and started writing their names and memorable bits about their appearances for future reference. The pen felt odd, alien in her hands, too sleek and cold.

They would be training together soon enough: Eirwen knew tributes all trained together before going into the arena. And more often as not, Career packs were decided upon before anyone even set foot in the arenas.

She glanced over at Dagonet, wondering when they could sit privately and discuss strategies. To keep Wulf alive, she needed allies. Strong ones, skilled with weapons – whom she'd be able to kill when the time came. Perhaps she would have an advantage, playing up her profession as midwife. No weapons-training involved in _that_. But she could hunt, build fires from nothing, knew how to survive in the wild – she would make an excellent ally, if only she could convince a few Careers to abandon their fellow district tributes and join her. Careers relied too badly upon the Gamemakers for weapons and food: _she_ was self-reliant. She had an edge _they_ could use to their advantage, too.

"Why are you making notes?" Wulf asked curiously. Eirwen licked her lips. They were all going to die… That didn't mean she wanted to start thinking of these teenagers as snow-footed hares or elk she had to shoot down for sustenance. Even if she didn't survive – and it was looking less and less likely she would, with the volunteer tributes – she wanted to be able to look up in the sky when they projected the day's dead, and remember something about each child the Capitol killed off.

She remembered the names and details of every child she had ever delivered.

"I don't know, perhaps…perhaps _familiarity_ might help," she said quietly, glancing at Wulf, before looking over at Dagonet. "Something to…break the ice." Dorabella, gazing over at her, made a tiny little noise of inspiration, and her lips twitched into a smile as she noted something down. Eirwen swallowed, and glanced back at Wulf. "If we have something to say to each of the other tributes, we needn't be wary about approaching them. Maybe we can make some friends."

"Friends?" Dorabella looked baffled.

"With all those extra Careers, we'll need allies," she said sadly. Allies they would have to turn around and kill. She just hoped they at least put up a good fight – and had the decency not to stab her in the back. That was something she refused to do.

"Most Career packs are formed before they enter the arena," Dagonet said, giving her a solemn nod.

"With so many of them, it'll be interesting to see how the dynamics shift," Dorabella said thoughtfully, and Dagonet glanced over at her, eyebrows raised in his first display of surprise.

"How so?"

"Usually the tributes from 1 and 2 team up together – sometimes with 4 instead… They may decide during training that they want to ally with each other…"

"Like how Mattias and Bertie are closer with Ruffio, and Thom, Grayson and Rigel are best-friends, and how Kelly, Diana and Agnes always stick together when Giulia and Analiese start an argument?" Wulf said, glancing at Eirwen, who understood the references because she knew who belonged to those names. All his siblings. And there were strong bonds and subtle alliances within the Rutherford family, siblings closer to some rather than others.

"Exactly," she said softly. "The tributes from 1 and 2 may get to the training centre and decide they want to ally with someone else, because of their particular skills. Or they just don't like the people from their district."

"Well, you can hunt, and I can throw my hatchets, and start fires," Wulf mused. "I don't think they should count us out."

"They would be fools to," Dagonet said quietly, but Eirwen heard him, glanced over, saw his serious frown as he gazed at Wulf.

"Ah, here's District 3," Dorabella said, directing their attention back to the screen. Veronica and Caius were not particularly stunning to look at or evidently powerful. They looked…like teenagers Eirwen might have had lessons with at school. Normal children, as opposed to trained powerhouses like Mallory from 1, and the giant Flint from 2. Eirwen noted their names, made a point of asking Caius who the little boys were clustered by his side at the Reaping…if they were brothers, cousins, she may have the chance of convincing him into an alliance to protect Wulf.

District 4 was another Career district. They weren't despised nearly as much as 1 and 2, but they were a wealthier District, petted by the Capitol, and in the last few years, Finnick Odair had been responsible for showering his tributes with gifts inside the arena. Again, there were eight tributes from 4. The girls were all lovely, between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, well-built, their skin tanned healthily, hair shining, eyes glowing – they didn't look like they'd missed a meal. None of the Careers ever knew how to be truly hungry. Coral, Ariel, Daria and Pearl; their names were lovely. And Eirwen liked the look of smaller, shy Pearl, while the girl named Daria strutted and smirked and made love to the cameras. There was a lethal edge to her smile.

When the name of the male tribute was plucked from the Reaping Ball, Eirwen found herself mesmerised, drawn to the edge of her seat, her lips parting, her stomach evaporating with a giddy tingling that spread from her toes and the tips of her fingers inwards, lighting everything it touched with an intoxicating fire she knew only one thing could quench. Red-hot lust made her belly turn molten, awareness prickling her skin.

This boy already had a severe disadvantage over her, without even wielding a weapon.

Those vivid sapphire-blue eyes would slay her.

His name was Cadeon.

And instead of milking the crowd, when he strode up to the stage, slim with lean muscle like a wild-cat and broad, toned shoulders she wanted to nibble, he didn't strut and preen the way Finnick Odair had in greeting. His shoulders were thrown back defiantly, yes, but…he looked sorrowful. It was very difficult to control one's bearing, especially under duress – Eirwen was no expert on body-language, but she believed that this was a young-man who truly had not wanted to represent his District in a glorious pageant of blood and honour.

She jotted the other boys' names down disinterestedly – Adrian, Caspian, Kai – and wondered how on earth the Gamemakers could allow someone with such a blatant advantage as those killing blue eyes into the arena with the rest of the mere mortals.

Eirwen wondered for a moment whether the Capitol patrons would pay for a two-for-one. A Finnick-and-Cadeon sandwich…

Now _that_ was a thought that would keep her smiling in the days to come.

A twinge pained her chest as Cicero's face flickered through her mind, but, well…he had all but released her as she waited in the Justice Building. Acknowledged she would never have waited for him, no matter if she loved him. And, well…she only lived once. Probably.

And they were a long time dead.

District 5, Power, offered up a kind-faced girl, Morgan, and Simeon, a well-built boy with a scar down one side of his face. She recognised the scar as the kind left when skin started to heal from a whipping.

District 6 gave up Zamora, with a wild mane of rambunctious, tightly-wound curls and almond-shaped eyes, and Filius, a sickly-looking boy who winced as he walked, and required the use of a rope to pull himself up the steps of the Justice Building. The midwife and nurse in her took in his appearance, the sallow skin, the sunken eyes, the complete lack of hair not just on his head but his eyebrows, his eyelashes, and recognized the symptoms of a child dying of leukaemia.

In the Capitol, there was apparently an injection one could have to cure you of this crippling, slow-acting disease.

Those in the Districts had no hope, except to obtain a few doses of sleep-syrup to handle the worst of the pain in the last days. There was something like…_relief_ in Filius' eyes as he stood onstage beside his chaperone. Wulf glanced at Eirwen, his eyes sombre, and Eirwen realised she had been leaning forward, elbow on her knee, hand curled over her mouth, frowning in concern at the screen.

"I imagine the idea of a quick death must be something he never dared dream of," Dagonet said quietly, and Eirwen nodded. Hadn't she just thought the same thing? To die was awful, yes. Particularly before one had even lived. To die over months, years, in agonising, unendurable pain without _hope_… That was another thing entirely. Eirwen just hoped Filius died instantly.

Last year's Victor, Johanna Mason, stood scowling, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as the District 7 chaperone announced a girl named Willow as the female tribute, and a boy named Ephraim as the male. Eirwen didn't like the look of Willow, there was something mean to her. But Ephraim, his tanned face featured pale crinkles at the edges of his eyes that spoke not only of a lot of time spent in the sun, but that he had been grinning as he did so.

District 8 gave the Games a girl named Ginny, barely fourteen, wearing a simply-made dress made beautiful by the colours and floral pattern and of the fabric, and Luther, whose rolled-up sleeves showed a scar from thumb to elbow, and he held this arm in such a way as made Eirwen believe it might be next to useless. By the sheer size and placement of the puckered pink scar, she thought he had probably got his hand caught in the textile machinery they used in 8. Lucky he hadn't lost the arm entirely, as amputation may have been simpler than repairing the damage. Still, she imagined the other tributes, particularly the Careers from 1 and 2, were at this moment watching the Recap on their own trains, plotting how best to kill this obviously weakened adversary.

She imagined Filius and the scarred boy named Luther, perhaps the younger girl from 8, would be at the top of their list. Careers always banded together to pick off the weaker ones first, then went after those in closest competition.

"Oh!" Dorabella gave an exclamation that may have been of delight or excitement, perhaps a little of both, and she clapped her hands. "This is us! My tributes!" And Eirwen sat, perplexed, something sinking inside her, like swallowing a hot stone, something that made her wince, as she watched. Watched Dorabella call Astrid's name – saw Mattias drop to his knees, so visible with his red hair and height – saw the flicker of anger cross her own face before her features smoothed entirely, she threw her shoulders back, and swept into the aisle between the congregations. She didn't raise her voice as she volunteered, and they had kept the moment when Dorabella had visibly recoiled at the look of scorching disdain on Eirwen's face as she had mounted the steps of the temporary stage.

What struck Eirwen about her volunteering was that no-one could guess who Astrid was, just from her volunteering. People might just think Astrid was the sister of the boy who had fallen to his knees.

Wulf's name was called, he stomped on the stage, looking thoroughly unimpressed – threw his arms around Eirwen's waist and tucked his face into her stomach, and that was when it really hit her.

Wulf was the youngest tribute so far.

None had been younger than fourteen, and all, even slight Ginny from 8, had been easily twice his size.

"Well, I will say you made _quite_ the impression," Dorabella said, smiling brightly at Eirwen. "I should have remarked on your carriage before, dear; you look quite…_regal_. Ramrod-straight, shoulders back. And imposing – we'll conference with your stylist about how we can make sure your fashions mesh with your _angle_, so to speak."

"My angle?"

"Yes. I'll have it worked out with Dagonet, he says he knows you a little to know what we have to work with," Dorabella said, making a few notes. "All the other tributes were smiles and provocative arrogance, or trembling – but you, you were cold as ice, until Wulf came onstage. It seemed you practically melted in his embrace." Wulf gave Eirwen a warm smile. "And none of the other tributes acknowledged each other at all, did you notice? Well, it's not uncommon. There's only one winner, after all. Better to not get attached. But, you see, Caesar Flickerman even commented on Wulf giving you the hug. And he called you by name, which he didn't do for any of the other tributes during his commentary." Eirwen glanced at Dorabella; she had _noticed_ things like that?

Now that the Reaping from 9 had been televised in the recap, Dorabella satisfied with the presentation of Eirwen's volunteering, Wulf giving her that hug, even Eirwen's evident disdain and coldness, Dorabella didn't seem much interested in the rest of the Recap. While she pressed little buttons, and had an attendant bring a small, silvery metal book she called a 'laptop' into the room so she could sit tapping away at little squares on the lower half (how she managed this, with her two-inch painted talons, Eirwen had no idea) Eirwen continued to watch the Recap.

A girl named Ashleigh and a boy called Beau were District 10's offers to the Capitol. The girl looked sturdy, and Eirwen remembered 10 was the cattle district. Cowgirls. Give them a rope and a knife, they could do a lot of damage – the last Victor from 10 was a woman now in her mid-twenties, and her Games had been memorable for her style of killing.

A pretty girl named Peaches, with rounded cheeks and vibrant green eyes, unusual for a girl with skin the colour of blackened copper, and a frankly _terrifying_ young-man named Culler were reaped from 11. Culler was rippling muscle, skin black as tar, tall as a mountain, but she found herself captivated by his beautiful lips.

Finally, bubbly chaperone Effie Trinket made her way onstage in front of District 12's Justice Building, wig quivering perilously in a sooty breeze, and called the name "Holly Brazier" from the girls' Reaping Ball. Holly was a very skinny girl with the traditional deep-olive skin of the area of District 12 referenced during Games as 'the Seam'. The miners, rather than the merchants. She had straight black hair cut short in a boyish fashion that suited her beautifully, and lovely warm-grey eyes. The boy, Guy, was about fifteen, also olive-skinned and dark-haired, and it was unfortunate he had bad acne.

"Well, that's that," Dorabella sighed, smiling happily. "The bets will have begun, I expect. I _must_ make a phone-call to the Capitol; Dagonet, would you mind coming with me – we can conference with Lucrezia, I'm sure she will have her own ideas, hopefully we can all get on the same wavelength before we get to the Capitol, it saves so much time and frustration and tears if we're not battling for creative dominance. Now – you two, I think it's best you go wash up, perhaps change for dinner. We will be dining at seven o'clock, and I expect Dagonet will want to sit with each of you afterwards. While you're talking to him, the other will sit with me, and we'll discuss elocution, etiquette and, Eirwen, I _must_ have you properly trained in high-heels before we arrive. Best to start now while you have so little to do but wait for the excitement to begin!"

Excitement. Yes.

Dorabella showed Eirwen and Wulf to their private compartments, which were divided between a bedchamber, a bathing suite featuring a marble bathtub and something called a _shower_ that had a panel of touch-sensitive buttons to programme different features – massage, exfoliation, perfumes, moisturisers, hot-oil treatments that sounded rather dangerous, conditioners – and a dressing-room, polished drawers filled with hundreds of outfits. Eirwen wondered briefly how whoever had stocked the drawers knew what size the garments needed to be.

Deciding a bath would give her too much time to sit and wallow, Eirwen frowned and spent fifteen minutes programming her shower. Well, if Wulf was dead set on enjoying himself…she might as well follow suit. She couldn't destroy his optimism. Destroy that, she'd destroy his hope, and if he didn't have that, they'd have next to no chance getting him home back to 9. She tugged on a shower-cap, something water-repelling with a ribbon-trimmed frill and a bow, and stepped into the open cubicle.

It was glorious.

First the warm water, a coating of thick brown-sugar exfoliator she had to scrub off with a 'loofa' that left her skin tingling and refreshed, then warm and hot jets on a massage setting that kneaded and pummelled her skin and made her knees weak and made her brace herself with a palm against the wall, until a naughty thought tickled at her, and she grinned to herself, turning her body just slightly so the jet hit her in just the right spot, wondering what Cicero would think of her – _oh!_

It worked. _Blindingly_ well.

She would remember that setting for later.

Knees trembling, she was given a hot-oil treatment scented with violets, before the scent was further enhanced by a buffing polish, before even that was gently rinsed away, and she was dried off with warm air scented with more violets, a touch of tuberose and freesia, the perfumed steam leaving her skin with a slight shimmer whenever she moved past one of the little wall-sconces.

She whipped the shower-cap off, left it to dry on the doorknob, and ensconced herself in a thick, wool-lined velvet robe and fluffy slippers, before curling up on the embroidered bedspread in the bedchamber. Post-shower, post-orgasm, she was feeling better than she had all day.

Griet had always taught her there were few pleasures beyond a hot bath and a savoury meal. That Griet had a fiendish sweet-tooth had never been lost on Eirwen, but Griet was a great believer in hearty stews being better for illness than any medicine, as they did such wonders for the soul.

Eirwen hadn't eaten much at afternoon-tea, too alarmed by the daintiness of the treats, questioning the wisdom of gorging herself in the face of a scheduled famine, but she anticipated dinner, the one meal she always made an effort to indulge in, when she could. She had been known to go days without eating; as long as she had a fairly constant supply of liquorice tea, she was happy. There was a little screen she could touch to activate, and whispering an order to it, the food or drink she desired would be brought within minutes to her compartment by a Capitol attendant. She ordered a cup of liquorice tea, and smiled when the server appeared, bearing the bone-china teacup and teapot on a silver tray, with a small plate of delicate morsels, sweet and savoury, that perhaps it had been noted she had picked at during afternoon-tea.

She largely ignored the food, though she couldn't help feeling both warmed that someone had noticed what she seemed to like, and slightly perturbed that someone had been watching her that closely. Were there cameras in the bedchamber? In the _shower_? Oh, well, she wasn't embarrassed. Nudity didn't faze her; and though she locked herself up tight against intimacy of most kinds, Cicero had helped unleash something she hadn't realised resided within her.

At home, as part of her daily duties, when she wasn't dropping off birthing packs, weighing newborns, inflicting inoculation injections, running the check-up in town, Eirwen sat going over her notes of each of the women and babies in her care. She usually sat at the kitchen-table, sipping her liquorice tea. This afternoon, she sat at the opulent mirrored dressing-table, sipping her tea and reviewing the notes she had made on the other tributes.

All forty of them, not including Wulf.

There was a soft knock on the door, and the boy in question appeared. He too had showered, wrapping himself in a deep garnet-coloured robe made of luxurious velvet, pinstripe trousers, fine leather shoes and a black shirt that shimmered deepest blood-red in different lighting.

"Did you play with the shower too?" he asked, his eyes bright with delight, and Eirwen nodded, smiling. He bounded over to the drawers full of clothes that Eirwen hadn't given a second glance. "One of the Capitol attendants calls this a smoking jacket. Isn't it _fabulous_?" Eirwen chuckled.

"Your family would barely recognise you," she said honestly. His dark-red hair was neatly combed, shining, curls gathered at the forehead and over his ears. Wulf's eyes flickered sadly.

"There's enough clothes in my room to keep my family for years," he said quietly. Eirwen eyed the drawers he was going through, feeling the fabrics, eyeing the cut and design of garments.

"Perhaps we could ask Dagonet to send some of them back to 9," she said, giving a delicate shrug. She highly doubted the Capitol would allow any such thing.

"Dagonet always brings fabrics home from the Capitol for Mother to turn into dresses," Wulf said, his eyes brightening a little. "I don't suppose I'd be able to go with him to pick some out – there's a fabric Dorabella calls _gossamer_ that'd look beautiful for a wedding dress for Astrid."

"Astrid will look stunning no matter what she wears," Eirwen said quietly.

"Shame we won't be there," Wulf sighed, his shoulders dipping, but he didn't look put-out for long. He gave a shrug. "More cake for the others." Eirwen glanced over at him. Self-sacrificing Wulf. _It could have been anyone but him_, she thought, wincing at some internal agony that was affecting the general region of her heart.

"Well, if we're not to have wedding-cake, we'd best stuff ourselves with dessert and afternoon-tea," she said, giving Wulf a sweet smile.

"Dorabella asked me if you had a weak-stomach, as you didn't eat much," he said, gazing earnestly at her. "I said I didn't think so, you're just sensible." Eirwen chuckled softly. "So why didn't you scoff down all those chocolates? I think Griet would have."

"I _know_ she would have," Eirwen smiled, though it was a wounded look. "She'd have had a bite out of every single cake before we'd even sat to tea."

"I must say, I think afternoon-tea is rather civilised," Wulf said grandly, with a sigh of contentment. He sat down on the end of the bed, and Eirwen stood up, crossing over to him, noting the way his fingertip was absently tracing the embroidery on the bedspread. She sat next to him, close enough that their thighs touched. She gave him a gentle nudge, and he glanced up.

"What's on your mind?" she asked quietly. Wulf sighed heavily.

"Those Careers were big."

"And slow, probably," she said, though she didn't believe it. They would have been trained extensively for endurance as well as weapons training – there was always a fair amount of running and hiding involved in any Games. "I'll bet, too, that they're not used to being hungry. Not the way we are."

"Should we destroy the food first?" Wulf asked, glancing up at Eirwen, who blinked.

"Why do you ask that?"

"When the Careers lose their food supply, that's when the other Districts usually win," Wulf said, sighing. Eirwen knew this, of course.

"I don't know. It depends upon the arena. If it's a desolate wasteland, the food provided at the Cornucopia may be all there is. Though there are always trees, nowadays."

"Watching people freeze to death is boring," Wulf said flatly. He glanced at Eirwen, his eyes flickering with guilt. In 9, it wasn't uncommon to find bodies when the winter started to thaw. To be caught out in whiteouts meant almost certain death. Freezing to death was also one of the most common causes of death for infants in 9. Due to this, children slept many to a bed, and newborns were usually swaddled and tucked to their mother's breast in slings.

Eirwen hated winter deaths: with a dozen feet of snow barring the ground, they couldn't bury their dead. Over centuries, their people had developed an intricate funeral ceremony of fire. Their dead were never buried; not ever. They were burned. And names were carved into small stone tablets, buried in the spring with the urn of ashes and a handful of wildflower seeds. To look at the gravesites, littered with those stones, one had to see through the forest of wildflowers. In winter, those graves were forgotten, unseen, buried beneath the snow.

"I wonder what our arena will resemble," Eirwen said quietly, gazing down at the carpet, which was richly-woven, luxurious and soft beneath her bare toes when she plucked her slippers off.

"They won't have another desert," Wulf said, frowning thoughtfully. "They did that last year. And the year before, they only had those maces. Very bloody, but it wasn't…exciting. At least, I didn't think so."

"Bloodshed _is_ entertainment, Wulf, no matter its form," Eirwen said heavily.

"That's not true, or they wouldn't have promoted Seneca Crane," Wulf said, eyes wide. Eirwen had forgotten, seeing how tiny he was besides the other tributes, how _clever_ Wulf was. True, Seneca Crane looked young enough on Caesar Flickerman's show to be _too_ young, really, to have stood a shot at such a promotion unless the old Head had been…_removed_. "Eirwen?"

"Yes?"

Wulf sighed deeply, his tiny form crumpling beside her. When he looked up at her, he looked tragically young. "How are we going to kill them?"

Eirwen sighed, feeling her own shoulders slump. But not out of a quietly-simmering despair Wulf seemed bent on hiding. It was out of a determination to do what was necessary. No matter how despicable the act. "We let the Careers do all the bloody work."

Wulf glanced at her, saying morosely, "They're built for it anyway."

"Exactly. Let them hack at each other. You and I, we'll try and forge some alliances, if not…we know how to survive the wild," she said quietly, tucking an arm around Wulf's slim shoulders. He rested his cheek against her collarbone, sighing gently, and curled into her. Eirwen wasn't used to touch like this, physical closeness, but she yearned for it. Adored intimacy with Cicero, just allowing him to hold her afterwards, _lived_ for cuddling tiny babies to her chest, bouncing them to keep them smiling…but she didn't have the sprawling family Wulf did, where at least four slept to a bed. It was a rare treat when Mrs Rutherford had a delayed labour; never leaving the mother's side, there had been times when Eirwen had been coaxed by Mrs Rutherford to go and sleep with her children. She would wake Eirwen when the time came. She always did – and Eirwen would sleep with little warm bodies cuddled up around and sometimes on her.

She mused, "On second thought, perhaps I should just unleash _you_ in the arena. You can charm them all to death before they know what's hit them."

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review. I'm having fun thinking up new characters from the Capitol – those involved in the complex underground network of rebels, which Gale referenced during _Mockingjay_.

I'd like to think that not all Careers are awful; I'd like to explore some of them being part of the rebel network. Something small, like choosing amongst the tributes which of them will survive, and forging alliances to try and steer things that way, without the Gamemakers realising.

If you think about it, if the tributes _chose_ which of them would win, that is a hugely rebellious move against the Capitol. They're all supposed to be out for themselves in the arena, but if a majority chose which of them they wanted to be Victor, a representative of their Games commemorated throughout history…they'd die with a tiny bit of satisfaction that they weren't entirely powerless against the Capitol as they died – and that's supposed to be the point, that the tributes and the Districts are powerless against the Capitol.

There will be subtle hints of rebellion within this story, before Katniss even volunteers. Look for gold, again, and tokens, and people like Plutarch, Haymitch, Cinna, the Capitol people I'll be creating – Lucrezia, Niccolo, a pop-singer I'm modelling after the likes of Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus (hate her, _love_ 'Wrecking Ball'!) Demi Lovato. Because, let's face it, Lady Gaga wouldn't exactly be out of place in the Capitol! I do need names for her, though.


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